


Spirit-Sensitive

by Valethra



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Ghosts, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder Mystery, Original Fiction, Paranormal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-27 08:30:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13877103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valethra/pseuds/Valethra
Summary: Michael Cross has been able to see spirits for as long as he can remember, and he uses this gift to help ghosts move from this world to the next. Sometimes, people don't realize that they're dead, and Michael has always tried to keep his wits about him when dealing with these "cold walkers". But what is he to do when a ghost manages to capture all of his attention? Before he even realizes it, Michael finds himself wrapped up in a dangerous mystery... One that could have HIM joining the ranks of the dead.





	1. Andy

Michael Cross, twenty-four, felt that he lived a relatively ordinary life.

He had a normal job in a standard newspaper office, and he'd never had trouble with conversation. He lived in a rather run-down apartment building, yes, but it was in the heart of the city. The short commute made the inconveniences worth managing.

Furthermore, Michael considered himself a relatively ordinary man. He was of average height and build, and nothing spectacular in the way of looks or intelligence. He had one very peculiar talent that he had always kept to himself, but that was about as far as his eccentricities went.

The same could not be said for many of the people with whom Michael shared an apartment complex. Several of his neighbors were unusual, and always in the exact same way.

One of these oddballs was Andrew Guzman. On this particular day, Michael caught sight of him right away. He was standing alone by the wall at the edge of the lobby and doing nothing of note. Michael knew that something was wrong when Andrew didn't offer him a shy (but friendly) greeting. He squinted at the boy's lanky silhouette, taking a few steps closer to him.

Andrew always looked a bit timid, or perhaps like he was perpetually sad about something. To see him wringing his hands together was nothing new. But his stance was unusually rigid, and he rocked back and forth on his heels, his eyes flitting about as if searching for unseen danger. Michael studied him for a moment more before he cleared his throat.

"Andy."

The boy in question flinched at the sound of his own name.

"Ah! I-I didn't see you there, Mr. Cross. I-I should get out of your way. I'll just be heading back to my apartment—"

" _Andy_ ," Michael repeated, more emphatically. "How many times must I tell you to call me Mike?"

Andrew chuckled nervously.

"At least one more time, I guess."

The younger man (he couldn't be older than twenty, right?) hid his brown eyes beneath the shadow of his hair, the mop of dark curls aiding him well in this disguise. Michael sighed.

Andrew had always been hesitant to talk about himself, and for good reason, if Michael's suspicions were correct. Maybe Andrew was finally beginning to understand his place in the world. It would explain his current level of anxiety. Michael would have to be careful breaching that subject, though— _best to start neutral_ , he decided.

"Is something bothering you?" Michael asked as carefully as he could. He briefly touched the other man's forearm. Andrew stared at the hand with an expression of confusion. It had probably been a while since anyone had touched him. "You can talk to me, you know. I'm always willing to listen."

Andrew didn't react at first. He stared, not fully processing the statement. It was easy enough to see when it finally hit him. And as soon as that offer registered in his mind, Andrew cast a frantic glance around the lobby.

"...Since you're always so nice to me, I'll tell you. But you have to promise not to tell anybody else, okay?! I don't want anyone to think that I'm crazy!"

Michael smiled a kind smile as he leaned against the wall beside Andrew. When they stood side-by-side like this, the difference in height was obvious. Andrew was a bit short for his age.

"Go right ahead," Michael encouraged. "I won't tell a soul."

Andrew bit his lip as he contemplated something. He nodded when he'd made up his mind, and then he screeched something in in a whisper:

"...I think that our building is haunted!"

Michael felt his eyebrows raise without his permission. That... wasn't what he'd been expecting at all.

"...Haunted? Ghosts? What makes you say such a thing?"

"It's that girl! The little one! Have you seen her?!"

Michael looked up as he tried to recall. One rather ghostly little girl came to mind, even if she wasn't the only little girl in the building.

"Are you referring to the girl in the green dress and pigtails?"

"That's the one!" Andrew's face couldn't seem to decide whether to show horror or shock, so it settled on something between the two. "You've seen her, too?!"

"I have. ...She's always in the hallway on the third floor."

"Which is totally the kind of place a ghost would frequent, right?!"

Michael tried not to laugh.

"You think that the child is a ghost, then."

"I'm _sure_ that she is," Andrew insisted. "All she does is... _stare_. At that one corner. And she laughs at nothing. It's creepy as hell!"

Michael couldn't disagree on that point— the child, as far as he could tell, wasn't fond of speaking to anyone. She preferred to watch, silent and waiting, from the end of a darkened corridor. Which was admittedly very creepy... Not that she could help that. She'd outgrow it when she became more accustomed to her own existence. Michael was sure of that much.

He had experience with these things, one could say.

"Is it a crime to be creepy?"

"I—" Andrew's retort broke off in a frustrated groan. "I guess not. But she gives me the weirdest feeling. I'm afraid to head into my own apartment when she's lingering around there."

Andrew frowned, and Michael continued to observe him, feeling his own mouth twist downward at one corner.

"I-If it was just that girl, I could dismiss it, but... Strange stuff happens around here all the time. Things go missing, things go bump in the night... I feel like I'm losing my mind," Andrew admitted. Michael's frown hardened, etching lines into his face.

"You're... not imagining things," Michael reassured him. "But you may be exaggerating some of it. This is an old building. Things are bound to creak and groan, aren't they—"

"I'm not talking about the building settling! I mean... I mean that I can hear people walking up and down the stairs late at night. But when I open my door, nobody's there!"

Michael didn't know how to respond to that at first. He hadn't realized that Andrew was so attuned to the activity.

Normally, Michael was the only one who saw and heard such things.

"And people keep disappearing left and right! Like that old man on the fifth floor... He and I used to talk about his birds every day. And then, one day, he was gone. Like he'd never existed. I never even knew his name, but... But still!"

Andrew continued his emotional tirade, and Michael couldn't help but wince. He'd played a part in those disappearances, after all.

But what was he supposed to do? Was he supposed to sit by and allow a ghost to continue feeling trapped and alone when he had the power to set them free? Was he supposed to ignore them when they called out to him for help?

Yes, it was true— Michael had a _very peculiar_ talent.

Ever since his early childhood, he'd been able to see and hear ghosts. More than that, he was able to identify them at a glance, and he was able to speak to them as though they still walked among the living. This was a talent that had brought him many a hardship, to be sure, but it had also allowed him to help people who were suffering in a place where no one else could see their pain.

Michael knew for a fact that Andrew was right. He wasn't imagining anything. But would it do him any good to tell him that right now?

"...Does it really scare you?" Michael asked tentatively. Andrew narrowed his eyes. "The possibility that there are actually ghosts among us, I mean."

"Of course it does. Who's _not_ scared of ghosts?! What if they're angry? What if they want to exact their revenge upon the living?!"

 _Hardly any of them are so petty_ , Michael thought.

"I... understand your fear," Michael said, dragging out his words as he searched for a plausible explanation. "But you have nothing to be afraid of."

Andrew paused, and then he looked up at Michael with eyes full of fear and wonder. Michael tried to look casual as he brushed stray pieces of his long black hair back behind his ears.

"Do you really think so?"

"I know so. That little girl in particular— you needn't be afraid of her."

"She's not a ghost?"

_She is._

"Of course not! She's just... A bit eccentric. Her parents work long hours, so she's often home by herself. She gets bored and lonely and wanders the hallway, since that's as far as she's allowed to go." Michael's lie, while flimsy, would have to do for now. Andrew completely believed it, if his expression was anything to go by. He was a bit too pure of heart— it seemed that he never took anyone for a liar.

"Y-You've... talked to her? I've been too scared!"

"I have," Michael confirmed, and this much was true. "Her name is Lily. She's nine."

 _She's permanently nine until she finds peace,_ he did not add. It would likely take Lily a long time to find any sort of comfort. No one deserved to die so young. Michael was surprised that Andrew hadn't noticed the old-fashioned nature of the dress she wore every day. If he had to guess by the style alone, Michael would say that Lily had died in the 1970s.

Andrew took a long series of seconds to think things over, and then his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He scratched the back of his neck.

"...M-Maybe I _am_ just imagining things," he mumbled. Michael gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder.

"That's nothing to be ashamed of. You're under a lot of stress. You're still not used to living alone, right?"

Andrew laughed, and in the kind of way that suggested he hadn't found anything funny.

"...Yeah... You're right. And I still miss my family back home. Sometimes it feels like we haven't talked in years, even if it was only a little while ago." Andrew looked at the faded carpet on the floor for a minute more before he stood up straight and shook his head as if clearing it of any negative thoughts. He turned to face Michael, his expression now firm and resolute. "I'm sorry to have troubled you! I was afraid I'd run into that girl— Uh, Lily, that is— so I've been putting off going upstairs. I'll head on up now."

"You do that," Michael encouraged. "And you should try speaking with her! She's odd, but she's very nice. ...I'll be up there shortly. I have to check my mail first."

"Okay! I'll see you sometime soon." Andrew turned in the direction of the elevator, and then he stopped. "...Thanks," he added under his breath, and without turning around, before his footsteps continued.

Michael heard the elevator ding, heard its doors open and shut, heard the whirring of the elevator shaft's slow ascent. The sounds confirmed that he was truly alone, and so he allowed himself to laugh and shake his head.

"Oh, Andy," he said quietly to himself.

Of course Michael couldn't help but laugh. The whole notion of it, every last bit, was as preposterous as it was strangely endearing.

After all, who'd ever heard of a ghost that was afraid of ghosts?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first time posting original stuff here! Any feedback is welcome.


	2. Michael

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Uh... I was thinking of ways to continue the first chapter of this, which was a stand-alone short story, and accidentally came up with an entire murder mystery novel with a side of paranormal romance. Bear with me.

Michael took a deep breath, inhaling the crisp autumn air. His favorite thing about this city was its weather— spring and fall were still long and distinct seasons, unlike so many places, and most days were sunny and mild with a light breeze. The trees bore red and orange leaves, like some kind of magazine photo of a forest hiking trail, and most places smelled like pine and cinnamon.

He liked this place, even if his apartment building was less than stellar and he hadn't been around long enough to get to know anyone too well.

Michael and his small family had moved, together, from the city he had grown up in to pursue a more relaxing day-to-day and to get away from the traffic and crime. They'd travelled around for a short while, not staying long in any one place, until they found their new hometown. The nomadic lifestyle of those last couple of years had been difficult, but it was well worth it now.

"Someone's hungry," Michael mumbled. The bird he'd been feeding had finished its food very quickly and was now squawking angrily at him, stomping one of its little feet.

Lloyd Crenshaw— their previous caretaker— had warned Michael that the birds could be a bit demanding. If they insisted on more food, he had warned, it was alright to give them just one treat, but that had to be the cutoff point.

As Michael fished through his basket of supplies for the little bag of treats, he paused. He felt a presence. It was one that he was familiar enough with by now to know who it was without looking.

"...Andy? What brings you all the way up here?"

"Ah!" Andrew seemed to jump out of his skin. "How did you know?!"

"Call it a feeling."

Andrew laughed nervously, and then he walked over to where Michael was kneeling.

"So he kept them up here," Andrew murmured to himself. There were four generously large birdcages on the apartment building's roof, each containing a single pigeon. "He was always talking about them, but I thought he kept them in his apartment."

"Well, we're not technically supposed to have pets in this building," Michael explained as he found the bag of treats. "But your friend Mr. Crenshaw was elderly, and the birds are hardly bothering anyone up here, so Mr. Laurence made an exception."

"Huh." Andrew studied the pigeon nearest him. "I didn't know you'd talked to him before! He said he was kind of lonely in this building..."

Michael was glad that Andrew couldn't see his knowing smile from this angle.

"That's only because he was the last one left in his family. He didn't have any friends or relatives left... Just these little ones."

"Oh. I guess that explains why he was so devoted to them." Andrew looked sad, for just a moment, before he smiled. "Why... are _you_ feeding them? Did you agree to take care of them after he, um... died?"

Michael noted that Andrew said the word "died" in an unsure tone. To him, it seemed that Lloyd had just disappeared one day, while everyone else in the apartment building had finished mourning Lloyd months before.

Lloyd had stuck around for a short while after dying to make sure that someone took good care of his birds, all of which he'd rescued off of the streets. He'd died in his sleep, after all, leaving him unable to make formal arrangements. And with no one left to will them to, he'd been too worried to leave this world behind.

That was where Michael had found him— on this roof, feeding his birds as if he had never died at all.

"He showed me how to look after them over the course of a very informative week... I'm not sure I'm qualified to do so forever, though, so I'm looking at some local bird rescues. Mr. Crenshaw wanted them to be kept together," Michael answered. Andrew hummed appreciatively.

"That's really nice of you!" He knelt down closer to where Michael was. "Hey, Mr. Cross—"

" _Andy_."

Andrew blinked at him for a moment before he scratched awkwardly at his neck.

"I-I mean... uh... _Michael_."

Michael smiled a slightly teasing smile at the other man.

"Yes, Andy?"

"Can they be pet? The birds."

Michael nodded.

"You can open the little window in the front of the cage and pet them that way. Just be sure to go slowly so that you don't startle them. They especially like it when you scratch their necks with the tip of your index finger."

Andrew did as he was told and petted the pigeon at his end of the row of cages. The bird seemed mildly confused for a moment before it settled into his touch. Michael had no way of asking them, but he was relatively sure that animals could see ghosts. Whether or not they _liked_ ghosts was always a bit of a coin flip.

"What brings you up here, anyway?" Michael asked as politely as he could. Andrew shrugged as he re-closed the bird's cage.

"I just wanted some fresh air... I don't get out of the building much these days. My balcony is nice, but it's not a lot of space. I mentioned it to Lily, and she said I should try the roof. It's actually pretty nice up here!"

Michael perked up at the mention of a certain creepy girl.

"You spoke with Lily?"

Michael blushed and played absently with his hair. He had an awful lot of it, Michael noticed. It was thick and curly, mostly a dark brown, but with occasional strands like caramel and copper. The sunlight made those highlights of color more noticeable.

"J-Just a little bit," he stammered. "And you're right! She is nice. Really smart for her age, too. She... occasionally says some really unsettling stuff, but... you did say that she's kind of weird, so it didn't catch me off guard like I would've thought it would."

"That's good. ...I'm glad."

Andrew sat beside Michael on the roof for a short while, absorbing the warm rays of sunlight that he'd likely missed, and they politely conversed about some of the new residents of the apartment building. Andrew said something about the new family on the second floor and the bizarre arguments they had, which confirmed something Michael had been curious about. That family spoke Spanish almost exclusively, and apparently, Andrew had no trouble understanding them. Which meant that he spoke Spanish.

"I'll let you get back to it, then," Andrew said as he stood up to leave. "It's always nice talking to you!"

"Thanks, Andy. I'll see you soon, okay?"

"Of course!"

He took off down the stairs. Michael heard him say something to the landlord as he passed him. Michael had been expecting him, as this was where they had always agreed to meet in secret.

The landlord, Mr. Laurence, had a perplexed expression on his face as he appeared in Michael's vision. He looked back and forth between the birdcages and the stairwell.

"Something... _Something_ just passed me there... I heard it going down the stairs. Is that who you were talking to?"

"It was."

"That was... the kinda guy I can't see, huh?" Mr. Laurence's tone was casual, like he thought the whole thing was a joke, but his expression gave away his nervousness. Michael chuckled lowly.

"...Exactly the sort," he confirmed. "I was just speaking with the resident of apartment 304."

Michael and his landlord had an understanding.

The landlord, himself, was not a seer in the way that Michael was, but he was attuned enough that he occasionally heard and felt things— Michael's family called these sorts of people "spirit-sensitive". Mr. Laurence knew that his building was very heavily haunted. And he had confessed this to Michael one night, which had prompted Michael to come clean about his abilities. That was how they'd arrived at this arrangement.

Michael's job was to keep an eye out for the spirits, to make sure that none of them turned malicious or fell into darkness, and to help them move to the next world whenever possible. Sometimes, this meant completing unfinished tasks or caring for mementos. When the spirit had moved on, Michael would call Mr. Laurence and tell him that that person's apartment had been "freed". Then Michael would bless the apartment and pray for the spirit's peaceful slumber. Then, _finally_ , Mr. Laurence could rent out that apartment again. In return for all of his help, Mr. Laurence gave Michael a heavy discount on his rent.

It was an arrangement that had served Michael well. He liked helping spirits. He enjoyed making good use of his gift. It was hardly _work_ for him at all. Even so, Mr. Laurence was incredibly grateful to him for his help.

"Apartment 304?" Mr. Laurence furrowed his brow. "That apartment is haunted?"

Michael raised an eyebrow.

"I've yet to be mistaken about these things. The boy doesn't walk among the living anymore."

"A-And I don't doubt your abilities, but... It's very strange. ...That resident is still paying rent. And I don't recall him being pronounced dead at any point."

Michael liked to seem one step ahead of everyone at all times, but even he was surprised to hear that. It showed on his face, if Mr. Laurence's reaction was anything to go by.

"...Hmm. He doesn't seem to be aware that he's died, and... that may be exactly why. ...Is he paying all of his bills? And on time?"

"Yep. Every single one. ...I mean, he never did go out much. I guess I didn't think much of it when I stopped seeing him," Mr. Laurence explained.

"I've tried to leave him to his own devices, but... it seems I'll have to do some investigation," Michael thought aloud. The number of questions surrounding Andrew's existence had suddenly tripled, and even he had to admit to his open curiosity.

Mr. Laurence focused his attention on the birds.

"If you're up here taking care of these guys... I'm guessing the old guy passed on?"

Michael nodded and closed the last of the cages.

"He did indeed. Lloyd Crenshaw's only remaining earthly attachment was these birds, and I volunteered to care for them. I would appreciate your help in finding a rescue that can take them, if you can spare the time."

"I don't mind at all," Mr. Laurence insisted. "It's the least I can do, since you won't take any money. ...How many dead people's tasks are you in charge of?"

Michael clicked his tongue.

"I'm certain you don't really want to know the answer to that."

Mr. Laurence shuddered.

"I guess not." He thrust his hands into his pockets. "Have you, uh, _exorcised_ the apartment, or whatever the hell it is you do?"

"I _blessed_ it," Michael laughed. "It's just throwing around some sage and saying a prayer. The apartment should be clear of any lingering energies."

Mr. Laurence tightly gripped Michael's hand in a business-partner kind of shake.

"Thanks, kid," he cheered. "You just might be my favorite tenant!"

Michael cracked a wry smile.

"...Are we including the dead, or just the living?"

Mr. Laurence didn't answer him, choosing instead to scurry off while shaking his head. Michael laughed under his breath as he collected his bag of bird supplies, bidding each pigeon a farewell for the afternoon.


	3. Lily

"Cross...? Cross! Look alive, kid!"

"Ah." Michael slammed his laptop shut and pretended that he hadn't gotten distracted reading his mother's latest blog post. "Yes, Mr. Anderson?"

Michael's boss slammed a stack of papers onto his desk.

"Hate to give you a workload on such short notice," he grumbled, seeming only a little bit like he meant it, "but Conway called in sick. You mind ghostwriting? He faxed me his notes, but I can't write an entire article with it—"

"Consider it done," Michael interrupted.

"Good. Also, I'll need Jenkins' article proofread, edited, and submitted to me by Wednesday, not Friday."

Mr. Frederick didn't even bother to offer a half-assed apology for his second sudden request before he slapped Michael on the shoulder and headed for the break room. Michael sighed.

Though he was _technically_ an investigative journalist, Michael found that his job at the local newspaper office mostly involved editing, ghostwriting, and penning short pieces on boring local events. It was a small city and not heavily populated, so not a lot went on, and most people bought the newspaper just to keep up and for the crossword puzzles. It wasn't the thrilling life he'd expected when he'd started his major, but it paid the bills, and he could often work from home and at his own pace. He couldn't really complain.

He spent the day writing an article under his coworker's name, and before long, his shift had ended. He'd forgotten to take a lunch break again. Just as he exited the building, his cell phone rang.

 _Right on cue_ , Michael thought.

"Mikey? Did you like the newest post?"

Michael looked around to make sure that he wasn't bothering any of the other pedestrians.

"What makes you think I've read it? I only just finished working."

"You always read it as soon as I post. I know that you get email updates."

Michael laughed quietly enough that he could be sure she couldn't hear it. It seemed there was no point in trying to deceive his mother. If he was always one step ahead of everyone, she was a thousand steps further.

"...I thought it was very interesting, as always," Michael said plainly, "though I don't much appreciate being referred to as your 'know-it-all son'. Besides, isn't that the pot calling the kettle black?"

Michael heard his mother laughing, and he was sure he could hear his sister in the background.

Michael's mother had been a seer for decades now, and she liked to share her knowledge with the unenlightened and paranormal enthusiasts alike, mostly through her blog and through e-books. Her name was famous among a very specific group of people. Michael had only ever run into a few people who had heard of her. This meant that he could live his day-to-day life without the fuss of her celebrity. But when he _did_ run into fans of hers, they were obsessive, and they'd start asking him a thousand questions about his own gifts without any regard for confused eavesdroppers. It was very much a mixed bag.

His mother, at least, was respectful of Michael's privacy and avoided giving out too much personal information about him. Even when it resulted in referring to him as "a certain stubborn boy of mine" or something similar.

"I call it like I see it," his mother replied. That was probably her favorite phrase. "Maybe quit bein' such a smartass, and I'll think of somethin' different to call ya."

Whenever she insulted him, her accent got stronger, Michael noticed. He rolled his eyes, but didn't argue with her.

"What are you actually calling about?"

She paused. He'd gotten her.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, since when are you so concerned with my opinion that you go out of your way to ask me? That can't be why you called." _And if I'm a smartass, I came by it honestly_ , he didn't add.

His mother sighed.

"...Your sister told me that you've stumbled across an interesting ghost. Have you figured out how a dead man's paying his bills yet?"

Michael stopped walking as soon as Andrew was dragged into the conversation. He sat on a nearby bench and made sure no one was eavesdropping.

"...Not yet. He works from home. I know that much. I've been trying to play my cards very carefully since he doesn't know that he's dead."

"We're talking about a cold walker here? What degree?"

"He can interact with his surroundings, he can eat, he feels cold and warmth, and he seems to have a daily routine. I usually run into Andy when he's checking his mail. And get this: he changes his clothes. Almost every day that I see him, he's wearing a different sweater."

"Hmm." She was clearly intrigued by that last detail. "In all my years of seeing, I've never seen that. ...How long has he been a spirit?"

Michael grinned. He'd finally found a ghost that his mother had never seen the likes of.

"At least as long as I've been in the building, so... Eight months? A year, maybe? He definitely doesn't know hat he's a ghost, though. ...He's scared of ghosts."

Michael's mother barked out a harsh laugh at that.

"Now _there's_ a new one." She left the room she had been in, if the creaking hardwood that Michael barely heard meant what he assumed it did. "...These things can be dangerous, you know," she warned.

"I'm well aware," Michael insisted, "but... I'm worried about him. He's young, and he's timid, but he's so kind to me. I don't know if he could take the realization, but I also don't want him spending an eternity like this, and who better to ease him into this than someone he trusts? If I can—"

"It sounds like you care an awful lot for this one."

Michael breathed, hard, out through his nose.

"I said as much already, didn't I?"

"Don't misunderstand me. I'm not just restating the obvious here. I'm telling you not to rush into things without thinking." She inhaled a sharp breath. Michael could imagine her stern gaze. "Or did you forget what happened the last time you let your feelings get the better of you?"

Michael winced.

" _No_ ," he replied too quickly. "I haven't forgotten."

"Good. Call me with the details if you learn anything new, but don't get ahead of yourself, okay? ...I'll talk to you later. Your sister wants something."

She hung up without leaving him a pause for farewell. Michael glared at his phone for a moment. His mother knew that he didn't like to talk about that, right? So why bring it up?

He squeezed at the faint bands around his neck. Most people assumed the wound was a birthmark of some kind. No one had ever studied it closely enough to notice that it was a faded series of scars, and one that perfectly mimicked the shape of human fingers.

He resumed his walk home after taking a moment to stretch his legs. He hummed a quiet tune and avoided standing too close to the people on the sidewalks. He'd usually take the bus, but on nice days like this, he walked. It was a good way to clear his head and stay in shape.

Michael's mother had always had the gift. His sister had it, too, even if Michael's was a bit stronger. He'd developed his mantra and his prayer when he was only seven, and he'd carried a tin full of sage and a blessed amulet on his person since he was nine. He'd been doing this his whole life, and so he liked to think that he knew exactly what he was doing (even if he sometimes envied his sister's assertiveness).

But, truth be be told, he didn't always know what to do next. And the scar around his neck was a constant reminder of that.

"There he is— _that's_ the one," an irritating voice said to her conversational partner as soon as Michael made it into the lobby of his apartment building. "That boy's always talking to himself!"

Michael tried not to glare at her, donning his usual polite smile instead.

"Good afternoon, Miss Friedman."

She scoffed in response. The woman never had a kind word for anyone, and she always seemed to appear when Michael was least expecting her, so she'd overheard more than a few of his conversations with ghosts.

He collected his mail, and then he dutifully headed for the elevator.

He noticed someone unusual the moment the door slid open. He walked right up to her.

"Lily? Aren't you usually on the floor below this one?"

The girl stared at her shoes. She was carrying a stuffed rabbit that Michael had never seen before. Besides that, nothing had changed— the same green and white dress, and the same pigtails.

"...I guess so." She didn't intend to say anything more on that, it seemed. She hid the rabbit behind her back when she noticed Michael's eyes on it.

Michael didn't press her to talk. Her eyes, blank and hollow, studied the whole of him without ever looking at his face. He stayed calm, stayed patient, until she felt comfortable speaking again.

"...Mr. Mike?"

She looked into his eyes. He smiled.

"Yes, Lily?"

"...What year is it?"

It was hard not to frown at that line of questioning.

"...It's the year two thousand eighteen," he answered honestly. Lily seemed disinterested, outwardly, but her presence flickered in a way that told Michael she didn't like that answer.

"It's been a very long time," she half-whispered.

Michael knelt down to her height.

"It has been," he agreed, "but that's okay. You deserved more time here, sweetheart."

He tentatively reached forward and gave Lily a gentle pat on the head. She seemed surprised, but her cheeks flushed and she smiled, if only very slightly. She touched the warm spot as soon as Michael's hand left it. She nodded.

"...I'll be going now," she said, and she had vanished completely before Michael could add anything else.

He felt that the conversation had gone about as well as it could have. If she was asking those sorts of questions, maybe she had grown tired of being here.

Michael waited a moment more, just in case she wanted to return and say something else, before he stood and entered his apartment.

It was always somewhat dim, even with all of the lights on and with sunlight streaming through the window, and the hot water rarely worked, and the floorboards were creaky and loose in a few places. Even so, it felt like home.

His home, wherever it happened to be, always smelled like books. This place in particular smelled like old books. Like a library. There was a shelf in his "living room" full of assorted mementos and objects that wouldn't make much sense to a stranger. Photos of unfamiliar people, children's toys, the occasional sketchbook or knickknack, and, most recently, supplies for feeding and caring for rescued birds...

It wasn't an aesthetically-pleasing or sensible arrangement. It was Michael's favorite part of the apartment. And soon, he hoped, he would add a stuffed rabbit to his ever-growing collection.


	4. Static

Andrew Guzman hadn't always been this timid.

Not as far as he knew, anyway. He couldn't exactly recall.

He gulped as he studied the entrance of the apartment building. No one else seemed to be around, so he could attempt this experiment in peace. Last time, he'd barely made it out of the door before that uneasy feeling had drawn him back to the safety of the indoors. He wanted to get further this time.

It had been nearly one year since what Andrew referred to as "the incident" had occurred. He'd woken up one morning, in his own apartment and bed, same as always, but found that the majority of his memory was gone.

He was able to recall bits and pieces. He remembered how the world worked, and the basic knowledge he'd acquired in school. He remembered most of the art techniques that he had apparently learned in college. He knew what his name was and how old he was and that he had a family somewhere.

What was missing was everything else. What was his family like? How had he come to live in his apartment? What kind of a childhood had he lived through? Where had he attended college, and what exactly had he studied? It was a blank, like someone had torn all of the pages from a book and left only the vaguely informative covers.

On the day of the incident, Andrew had searched his apartment for whatever information he could find about the life he had lived. He was able to discern his own hobbies and what he did for a living, as well as some vague details about his background. He'd found a photo of his family. This told him that he had a twin sister, even if he couldn't remember if he was the older or younger twin, and two parents, even if he didn't know whether he was adopted or not or if they'd gotten divorced.

After that, he'd decided that the best thing to do was see a doctor about his sudden bout of amnesia. But when he'd tried to leave the building, he'd suddenly felt nauseous and like he could collapse at any moment. He'd crawled back into the building. He tried again and again over the course of several days, but each time, he found the same result.

Maybe he'd developed that thing— the fear of open spaces. There was a name for that, right? Something-phobia, started with an a? Whatever it was, whatever name it had, it had trapped him in the building.

He'd decided to keep the problem to himself if anyone asked, but no one ever did. Every person that he passed seemed to ignore him, like he had become invisible overnight. He knew that he wasn't— he could see himself in the mirror just fine. But when he spoke, no one answered, and when he waved, no one waved back. It was especially hurtful because he'd wanted someone to talk to about the strange noises he'd been hearing at night, or the creepy girl he sometimes saw in the hallway.

That void of an existence had continued for months, with no one acknowledging him, until he'd tripped running up the stairs with a package one day when the elevator wasn't working.

"Whoa," a man's voice had said. "Are you alright?"

A hand had pulled him to his feet and returned his package to him. The young man had smiled when Andrew's eyes met his.

That man. That helpful stranger. Michael Cross. Once _he_ showed up, things started to change.

The apartment building seemed more lively, even if it was often in the form of those weird detached sounds at night, and suddenly, a handful of people would speak to and acknowledge Andrew. These relationships were often short-lived or strange, but Andrew had begun to crave any kind of human interaction. His daily meetings with Michael by the mailboxes had become the highlight of his entire day.

That was what had driven him to this. He wanted to be able to make more friends, and to see a doctor about his amnesia, but those things would require leaving the building. Andrew braced himself for some kind of impact.

"You shouldn't go out there."

Andrew shrieked when he heard the small voice beside him. He turned and found Lily there, and she looked at him disapprovingly.

"Wh-Why not?" He asked as calmly as he could. She seemed fearful, and she narrowed her eyes at the broad doors.

"...It isn't safe. ...The outside."

Andrew waited for her to elaborate, but she didn't. He laughed casually and ruffled her hair.

"It can be dangerous out there, yeah, but this city doesn't really have a serious crime problem. It's not like I've got a lot of money, anyway. ...I'll be alright! I just want to go to the store on the corner over there." He pointed at his destination. He just had to make it to the end of the sidewalk, and then cross the street, and he'd be there. Lily frowned harder nonetheless.

"...Please be careful."

She looked like she was waiting for something, so Andrew took this as permission to go ahead. ...Not that he really needed a little kid's permission. Andrew pushed open the door, and then he walked, slowly, outside. The air was clean and smelled of trees. So far, he felt fine, if a bit uneasy.

He waited as the door swung closed behind him. He took one step down the sidewalk. Then another. Then another. ...Were his legs getting heavier, or was that just him? Each step felt like it took more and more of his strength.

He picked up his pace and tried to force his way through the fatigue and the first signs of dizziness. He was _so close_. He'd never gotten this far. He desperately wanted to make it. He _had_ to make it, even if it killed him.

Two more steps, and it _burned_ , it felt like he was being stabbed with acupuncture needles over every inch of his body, or like he was being torn in half, and his vision clouded with hazy blackness, and he gasped for breath only to find that his lungs had started to flatten. He managed a single scream, a useless protest against the pain, before it all became too much.

Andrew turned back and fled to the safety of his apartment building, feeling himself grow more whole and full and coherent with every step.

He collapsed on the floor of the lobby, sweating and gasping for air. A cold little hand touched the exposed nape of his neck.

"...Are you okay?" Lily asked. Andrew looked up into her empty grey eyes and forced a smile.

"Y...Yeah," he answered. He stopped to regain his breath. "Everything got fuzzy, and my head was spinning, so I came back... I guess I really shouldn't go out there."

"I tried to warn you," Lily whispered as she knelt down beside him. "The outside isn't the place for us. This place is safe."

Andrew didn't ask her to clarify what she meant by "us". Even if she really was an actual child and not a ghost, she sure did say some creepy and inexplicable things. Andrew's smile wavered, and he felt his eyes watering.

"I... really am trapped in here, aren't I...?"

He forced himself up into a sitting position and wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater. Lily sat in front of him and tilted her head. She touched his free hand.

"...Are you sad, Mr. Andy?" Andrew opened his mouth to respond, but couldn't seem to form words, so he settled on a nod. "Why are you sad? I don't like it when people feel sad."

He didn't respond right away. He still felt a bit tingly, and it was making it hard for him to articulate his thoughts.

"I... can't seem to leave this building. It's lonely here. Almost nobody seems interested in talking to me except for—"

"Mr. Mike?"

Andrew reddened at the cheeks.

"...Yeah. ...I call him _Michael_ , though. Since he won't let me call him _Mr. Cross_ anymore."

Lily stared, and Andrew felt like he could see her thinking.

"Mr. Mike is a very nice man," she said quietly.

"He is. A-And he's the only person here who seems to like me, so I'm not sure what to do with myself when he isn't around. That's why I'm lonely."

Lily stared for a long moment before she smiled a faint smile.

" _I_ like you, Mr. Andy."

"That—" Andrew sighed, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders. "Thank you, Lily. ...I should go back to my apartment. I can't just sit on the floor all day."

He stood, and once he was on his feet again, Lily was suddenly inches away from him. Her eyes didn't lock onto his and instead looked at something to her left. Andrew was afraid to move. How did she even manage to get in his face like this? Wasn't she half his size?

"If you're really that lonely..." her eyes shifted to the right. "...try going out at night."

Andrew swallowed the fearful lump that had risen in his throat.

"N-Night? ...Why?"

Her eyes drifted slowly to the center of her vision, where they finally met his.

"...There's more _activity_ at night."

Andrew wanted to scream at how strange and eerie that statement was, but he instead nodded and slipped away from her, turning this back on her for only a moment.

"Th-Thanks for your concern, Lily, but I don't want to end up an insomniac." He turned. "And you're still a little girl, so you shouldn't be—"

Lily was gone. She hadn't vanished, or faded away, and he hadn't heard her footsteps run past him in the hall. She had been there a moment before, and now she wasn't. Feeling a pinprick of fear on the back of his neck, he bolted for the elevator and didn't stop rushing until he found himself safely inside of his apartment once more.

The apartment always seemed dark, no matter how many twinkling strings of lights he hung up. There were shelves along the windowsills, and these shelves were full of greenery in the form of succulents and cacti, while the ones on his balcony grew flowers. There were star charts and pictures of space all over his walls, even on the ceiling, and the whole room smelled faintly of drying paint. He had four paintings in progress, while another slowly dried. Oil paint always took so long to dry, and he tried to stay out of the apartment as he let the fumes escape from the opened window and balcony door.

He closed his window and the glass-paned door to the balcony, both creaking in protest as he did so, and carefully touched the oil paint on the canvas. _It should be dry enough by tomorrow morning_ , he thought, _but I'll give it another day. Just in case_.

Beside him was a work table full of flattened boxes and packing tape and address labels and bubble wrap. The smaller table near the window had a bright lamp on it and was covered in charcoal sketches and his latest attempts at drawing with those expensive markers. There were little tables and shelves all over the apartment, leaving him no room for things like a sofa and a television. All that he needed to get his fill of media was his radio, his laptop, and some good books.

He sighed as he sat down on one of his creaky kitchen chairs. His kitchenette was barely big enough to move around in, and he'd chosen to use a round table with only two chairs around it to save space. But no one had ever sat in the other chair... not as far back as he could remember, anyway.

There was a knock on the door, and a familiar voice announced itself. Andrew opened it and handed off a few dollar bills as a tip before he was handed a large cardboard box. He thanked the delivery man and ducked back into his apartment to inspect the box's contents. As always, he got a delivery of groceries on Thursday. Rice, beans, vegetables, iced tea, lemonade, and some spices this time.

He sighed at his predicament as he put the food away. Everything he did was confined to this building, to this apartment. He didn't have to go grocery shopping in a store, there was a laundry room in the building, and even his art supplies and toiletries were delivered to his address. This system, it seemed, had been put in place by the former Andrew— the one with his memories intact.

...Had that version of Andrew been a recluse? Or was he hiding? And if he was hiding, what was he so afraid of?

Andrew made himself a bagel and looked glumly out the window. Every day, the same routine. Not a bad one, but he'd grown restless, and he wanted to leave this building, wanted to figure out what the hell had happened to his memory.

He glanced at the clock. It was... It was almost time. He smiled and scarfed down the last of his food.

Michael would be coming home from work soon. Which meant that Andrew had to be ready, coincidentally checking his mail, when he arrived.


	5. Shy

Michael could no longer ignore the obvious reality staring him right in the face: Andrew was becoming _very_ attached to him. Sometimes it seemed like he was following him, or watching quietly from a distance, unaware that Michael knew he was there. But Michael didn't have to see him to know that he was there. He could _feel it_.

He maintained a neutral expression as he closed the lid of the washing machine. He had intended to go back to his apartment until the washing was finished, but first, he had to deal with his visitor.

"Did you need something, Andy?"

Andrew shrieked, and then he came out from the place where he thought he was hidden behind the doorway. He wasn't yet aware, it seemed, that other people couldn't see him anyway.

"How do you _always_ do that?!"

Michael shrugged, smiling to himself as he set the timer on the machine.

"Call it a feeling."

Michael replied the same way that he always did. Andrew sighed, sounding mildly irritated, but didn't press the issue any further. He avoided Michael's eyes. Michael didn't accuse him of following him.

"I-I was just bored. Lily said she saw you heading downstairs with a laundry basket."

"It sounds like the two of you are getting along."

Andrew bit his lip before answering.

"Y-Yeah, we are. She's... I still think she's creepy, but she means well."

"She told me that you tried to go outside the other day, and that you looked sick. Are you alright?"

Andrew winced, looking extremely uncomfortable.

"I'm fine! I... Just..." He paused and searched for the right phrasing. "I don't get out much anymore. I feel sick when I try to go too far from the building. I-I'm sure it'll go away, though."

Michael nodded and climbed atop one of the washing machines. He patted the one beside him, and Andrew hesitantly joined him. It wasn't exactly a bench, but it was comfortable enough seating for now.

"Now..." Michael cleared his throat as he looked around to make sure that no one was eavesdropping. "How long has that been the case?"

"...Huh?!"

"How long has it been since you were freely able to go outside? ...I'm just curious."

Michael waited, patiently, for Andrew to answer the question. He didn't intend to push him, and if he lied, or didn't want to answer, that would have to be enough for now. Michael could wait.

He was generally good at telling if people were being honest with him, but even with his sixth sense and his powers, he could not see it plainly. He was reluctant to admit it, but he was as blind as anyone else when it came to _trusting_ others. Whether they were dead or alive.

"...It's been about a year. ...Almost that long."

Michael shook his head. _Oh, Andy_. He hadn't left the apartment building in a whole year, and he still hadn't realized what he was?

"You haven't left this place in a year? That must get lonely—"

"N-No, I go out sometimes! And there's the balcony, and the roof!" Andy insisted, dramatically waving his hands about in denial.

Michael couldn't help but feel a little disappointed. He knew for a fact that Andrew couldn't leave, and he didn't think that making it outside of the apartment building's doors truly counted as _leaving_. Which meant that, for whatever reason, Andrew was lying to him.

"...You don't have to lie to me," Michael said. Andrew froze. For a moment, he tried to think of ways to retract the statement. Perhaps he had been too blunt? "That is, if you really haven't left, I wouldn't judge you for it. If you feel that ill, then... it can't be helped."

Andrew blinked at him for a moment, studying his face as if trying to find a hidden answer to a question he hadn't voiced, and then stared straight ahead. It was almost like he hadn't heard the statement at all for how little he acknowledged it.

"What do you do at work?" Andrew asked out of nowhere. It was a sloppy attempt at changing the subject. He was afraid of whatever was keeping him in the building, and for good reason. "You told me that you work at the newspaper office... Are you a photographer?"

"I'm an investigative journalist," Michael answered. Andrew lit up like a little boy meeting a real-life superhero. " _Technically_ ," Michael added.

"Technically?"

"Yes, well... not a great deal goes on around here. I end up writing articles about pie-eating contests and the like, or ghostwriting for coworkers and editing everyone else's articles. Sometimes I throw graphics together or come along with a different reporter to snap pictures. It's not especially consistent and it's not what I signed up for, but the pay is good and I can work quite a bit from home. No long hours in a cubicle."

"I think that's _amazing_ ," Andrew blurted out. "I mean, one guy doing so many different jobs? What would they do if you weren't around?!"

Michael laughed and shrugged the compliment off.

"I'm sure they'd manage. I'm not the only one who multitasks. They don't have a lot of employees." He turned his head so that he was facing Andrew directly. "...And what about you?"

"...Me?"

"You have to pay the bills somehow, don't you? What is it that you do all day when you're cooped up in your apartment?"

Andrew blushed and played with the sleeves of his sweater. He always wore soft ones that looked a size or two too big for him, and usually in warm colors. The sleeves of this one covered his hands. Michael noticed paint on his fingernails.

"...I could show you."

His voice was so quiet, and so sudden, that Michael barely caught it. Andrew didn't look up from his hands, but his cheeks darkened a bit in color. It was a bit harder to identify a blush on him than it would be on someone paler. The caramel tone of his skin somewhat disguised the redness. Even so, his blush got darker with each silent second that passed, until his cheeks were stained a clearly visible crimson.

"...Show me what?" Michael asked carefully. He could figure that much out from the context, of course, but he wanted Andrew to spell it out plainly.

"M-My apartment. My, um... _work_. Only if you'd want to, though!" When Michael didn't answer right away, Andrew looked at him and forced a shy smile. "W-We... could have dinner, maybe talk a little. I make a mean _lomo_ _saltado_."

Michael blinked.

"I don't know what that means."

Andrew laughed, embarrassed, and scratched the back of his neck.

"It's, um... a stir fry. It's beef and veggies with soy sauce, and it's kind of spicy."

"Hmm. ...I like spicy food." Michael didn't bother to address the harsh reality that his idea of spicy might be _very_ different from Andrew's. He wasn't sure where, exactly, Andrew's family hailed from, but he was sure that that country's food was spicier than anything in Romania (the place Michael's maternal ancestors hailed from).

"O-Oh? That's good! Are you... Are you free for tomorrow after you finish with work...?"

Michael studied Andrew for a moment, just to be sure that this was really what he wanted, before he nodded.

"I'd like that. I'll be there at, say, six?"

Andrew beamed.

"Six... yeah, six is fine! Six is great!" Andrew hopped off of the laundry machine and scurried to the doorway. "I-I'll, uh, see you then, okay? I'll let you get back to your laundry. Bye!"

He ran away before Michael could answer him. He was pretty transparent, that Andrew. He'd clearly wanted to run off and dance around somewhere, but hadn't wanted to seem _too_ eager in front of Michael. Michael chuckled.

He still had another thirty minutes to go until the load of laundry finished, so he returned to his apartment. Once there, he found the worn leather-bound book that he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk and the fountain pen that he used exclusively for writing in it. He flipped through the pages until he arrived at the one labeled _Andrew Guzman_.

_September 7th— Andy invites me to his apartment. He plans to make me dinner and show me what he does for a living. He has confessed to being deceased for nearly a year, though he describes it as feeling ill when he tries to leave the building. His profession remains unclear, but several small hints have led me to believe that he is some sort of artist._

He left the page open on the desk long enough for the ink to dry before he returned the book to its hiding spot.

It was no wonder that it seemed so well-worn. His mother had given it to him when he was five. And ever since, he'd used it to write down the names and lives and details of each and every spirit that he met.

Even if no one else would remember them, Michael certainly would.


	6. Lonely

Michael was astonished by what he saw when he entered Andrew's studio apartment. It was _covered_ in art, plants, and stars.

Andrew seemed to favor painting over any other art form, and he had canvases and easels set up all over the place. He had window boxes and planters and shelves full of plants, and some others hung from the ceiling rafters along with strings ending in star-shaped lanterns and strands of glittering lights reminiscent of those meant for Christmas trees. Andrew didn't seem to have a bed. Instead, he slept on a hammock tucked in one corner. All of his clothes sat in wicker boxes underneath it. The posters and prints all over the walls depicted star charts and paintings of space and the moon along with various pieces of artwork.

There were several worktables, each serving a unique purpose. Andrew had lamps and special lighting and a quality camera for taking photographs of large pieces, and he had an elaborate computer setup. A printer, a scanner, and one of those laptops that could be flipped over into an art tablet.

"I'm... surprised you could afford this kind of equipment," Michael commented. He wasn't taken by surprise very often, but he'd never seen a room like this one. "By which I don't mean to insult you, of course. It's just that this apartment complex isn't the fanciest of places."

"Well, that's _why_ I could afford it," Andy laughed. "The rent here is low, and I save money wherever I can. I saved every penny for a while and upgraded my setup as I went. You've gotta spend money to make money, right?"

Michael chuckled as he took in the canvases.

"So you're a professional artist. ...Not starving, I hope?"

Andrew laughed knowingly.

"I've come pretty close, but no, not starving." He rushed over to one of the completed canvases. "I'm shipping this one out tomorrow. I just sold it for two grand. I'm not sure why, but my art's been in pretty high demand for the last year or so."

Again, Michael was caught off guard. _Two thousand dollars_ for a single one of Andrew's paintings? He studied the canvases and the sketches he glimpsed on the tables, and... he understood why Andrew's art was so popular.

There was a quality to it that couldn't be put into words, like each piece contained a powerful emotion or energy. Once one looked at it, they couldn't help but stare, entranced. And it was highly likely that his work had been given that power by his unique state of being.

It was true what they said about artists— their work wasn't truly appreciated until after they were dead.

"It's all about profit turnaround," Andrew explained as he excitedly turned on some extra lighting. "I can make art with just about anything. So if I can take cheap or recycled materials and make something that _looks_ expensive, I'll always make money on it! ...It can be hard to sell the bigger pieces, though, so if I depended on that I might go through long dry stretches. I also sell prints of my digital work and do commissions."

"You've got it all figured out. This is like some kind of one-man studio." Michael touched one of the canvases. The paint was thick and textured. "Is this oil paint?"

"It is. I try to stay out of the apartment while I let it air out."

Michael raised an eyebrow at Andrew.

"Isn't that a bit dangerous?"

"...Eh?"

"Leaving everything open and unlocked when you aren't home... You may be on the third floor, but there's still the fire escape. Someone could easily break in."

Andrew seemed to wither.

"I... never thought about that."

Michael shook his head. Andrew, like many of the artistic types he'd met, was a bit scatterbrained.

"You know, if it's sunny out, you could try painting on the roof. I'm sure that Mr. Laurence wouldn't mind."

Andrew thought that over and didn't say much as Michael looked around at the art. He was thinking deeply on the implications of the arrangement. If Andrew was selling all of his art online, it was entirely possible that he was doing so through a sort of stage name, or an anonymous handle. And if that was the case, he could easily make enough money to live and have none of the profits trace back to Andrew Guzman. His clients wouldn't suspect anything, as they'd never realize they were buying art from a dead man.

"You can look around if you want," Andrew said, making his way for the kitchenette. "I'm gonna start making dinner."

"You get your groceries delivered?"

"O-Oh, uh..." Andrew realized that he'd left the empty delivery box on the ground. "Yeah. I don't get out much, so it means I don't have to worry about grocery shopping."

He looked at the cabinets and hid his face. He still didn't like talking about that reality. Michael decided not to ask any more questions about that and focused his attentions on the apartment. He would study Andrew's belongings and deduce as much about him as he could.

He had a bookshelf. Michael read each and every one of the titles. Several of them were in Spanish, including a very old and beat-up looking Bible. He'd probably been raised Catholic.

His art style didn't reveal much, as it seemed that he didn't have one. Andrew's influences were very broad. So much so that almost every piece was a completely unique identity, or an exploration of something new. Had he studied art in college, or was he completely self-taught? Michael didn't know enough about art to tell.

He surveyed the entire apartment, but no matter where he looked, Michael couldn't find photos of a family.

"All done!"

Andrew's announcement pulled Michael out of his state of deep thought. He smiled, pleasantly surprised.

"Already? That was awfully quick."

"I did all the prep earlier. And it's just a stir fry, so the cooking part doesn't take very long." He scrambled to set up two plates of food on green plates with little leaf designs on the edges. "And I toned down the spiciness a bit, seeing as you're... _You know_."

Michael tried not to crack a smirk and feigned ignorance, touching his own chest.

"Seeing as I'm _what?_ "

A long silence. Andrew looked at his own feet.

"You know... A white guy?"

Michael laughed, and Andrew joined in after a minute of self-conscious fidgeting. They both sat down at the little table, where Andrew had set some candles down as some kind of centerpiece.

"I'm about as white as they come, really," Michael confirmed. "Romania on my mother's side, and I think that my father was of... French descent?"

"You _think?_ " Andrew quirked an eyebrow. Michael shrugged.

"Well, I never really knew my father. He worked a lot, and he left when I was around eight."

"...Oh." Andrew frowned. "That... that sucks."

"Not particularly. My mother's a tough lady, and she raised us just fine on her own."

"Who's _us?_ Do you have siblings?"

"A sister. Younger. Isabelle, but we call her Izzy."

"...I have a sister, too. We're twins," Andrew said through a sad smile. He didn't add any details. He probably couldn't remember them.

Michael had always found that sharing details of his own life made spirits trust him more. Sometimes, he didn't have to accuse them of being dead. They'd tell him themselves.

"So, where does your family originate from? ...I know by now not to ask 'where are you _really_ from' or, worse, 'what are you'. I'm sure you get that kind of thing enough as it is."

Andrew laughed.

"Actually, it's usually 'what KIND of Latin are you?' Like it's an ice cream flavor or something. A-And it doesn't make me _mad_ or anything, because I know people usually mean well enough, but sometimes it's hard not to roll my eyes." He took a bite of his food to test the temperature and gave a little nod to indicate that it was okay to eat. "But, to answer your question, we're Peruvian."

"And that's where this dish is from?"

"Yep!"

There was a little pause as Michael slowly realized Andrew was watching him and waiting for him to try it. He gave an apologetic smile, suddenly feeling a little nervous, as he picked up a forkful of the food and tried it in one bite.

It was a bit spicier than what he was accustomed to, but it was good. It was REALLY good, actually.

"It's delicious." He made sure to smile as he said it, and Andrew lit up like a Christmas tree. Michael quickly grabbed up another forkful. "I'd offer to make you something in return, but I have to admit that I'm an abysmal cook. I have to follow very basic recipes word-for-word and hope it turns out as something remotely edible."

"That... surprises me," Andrew confessed. "You always seem so put-together. I-I'm glad that you like it, though. Of course."

They chatted about whatever came to mind as they ate, though Andrew did occasionally dodge questions, such as when Michael asked where he'd studied art. It was easy enough to tell what he did and didn't remember and what he'd deduced by going through his own belongings. Michael was glad, at least, that Andrew was so transparent.

When the food had been finished, Andrew put the dishes in the sink. He'd made just enough for two people. They both washed their hands, and then Andrew seemed to contemplate something as he fiddled with the bottom of his sweater.

"Was there something else, perhaps?" Michael asked. Andrew blinked at him for a moment before he ran to a corner and fetched a large folder, choosing not to answer in words. Michael quietly waited. "I take it you've got a piece for me? You didn't have to do something like that—"

"It's not a big deal, really! I-I mean, it's not like I've got anywhere to be, and I hardly ever do anything _but_ draw and paint, so..." Andrew seemed to find, just then, what he had been looking for. He presented it to Michael. Or, he tried to, and then he suddenly withdrew his hand. His face turned slightly red. "I... I hope you don't think this is weird or anything. It's... kind of an artist thing? I-I don't know, but... no one else really talks to me."

Michael laughed softly.

"You have to let me see it before I can determine how I feel about it, don't you?"

"...I guess you're right."

Andrew shyly handed the pieces over. Michael unrolled them and stretched them out on a nearby work table.

He was instantly blown away.

They were drawings, done in some kind of sepia-toned ink, on what looked like old parchment. The resemblance, the technique, the texture and warmth— all three of the pieces were remarkable. They also looked very familiar.

"They all look just like me," Michael breathed. Andrew seemed not to do so at all, like he was afraid of Michael's reaction. Michael turned to face him and smiled. "...And, no, I don't think that it's weird. ...Or anything."

As Andrew chuckled, looking a little bit too pleased with himself, Michael's eye caught another one of the drawings in the folder. He could only see about half of a face, but it was still a face that he recognized. He pointed at it, looking questioningly at Andrew, and Andrew scratched the back of his head.

"O-Oh, that one? That's just, uh... yeah. I guess it's exactly what it looks like."

"Can I see it?"

"...I guess."

Michael took the drawing from the stack and laid it out atop the ones he'd been given. It was a picture of Lily, and drawn from a slight distance, so that most of her dress was visible.

"This one's good, too," Michael complimented. "Have you considered giving it to her?"

"I don't know about that. I don't talk to her as often as you do, and I don't want her to think that I'm creepy or anything, so... I'd be too embarrassed."

"...I could give it to her. And tell her that it's from you."

Andrew bit his lip as he contemplated the offer while Michael waited with bated breath. He hoped he'd get permission to deliver the drawing to her, but didn't want to push the issue. Lily would definitely appreciate that someone had taken the time to depict her. It might even help her pass on. It would remind her that not everyone was mean-spirited.

"O-Okay." Michael perked up at the confirmation. "I guess if it was you, she would be a little bit more open to it... She talks about you a lot, you know."

Michael's mouth curled up at one corner.

"I'm sure she does."

Michael gave a grateful nod as he rolled up all four pictures. He already had an idea of where he would hang the ones made for him. He snuck a glance back at the table as Andrew waited, once more noting the candles on the table. If he didn't know better, he'd think this was meant to be some kind of date.

...Actually... maybe it was? Between the candles and the pictures and the home-cooked dinner, it certainly seemed that way. And while Michael didn't like to assume anything about people, and tried to avoid stereotypes, he wouldn't be surprised to find out that Andrew fancied other men. The boy _did_ stutter and blush an awful lot around him.

That wasn't any of his business, though, and he wouldn't mind either way.

"Anyway, I had a great time," Michael announced as he inched his way closer to the door. "I'd be more than happy to stop by again any time you'd like, and my apartment's open to you as well."

"O-Oh? That's great!" Andrew beamed, running to the door and holding it open for his guest. "I'm sure you've got a lot to do, so I won't keep you waiting, but... we should do this again sometime!"

Michael answered with an agreement and an affectionate ruffle of the other man's hair, and then he returned to his own apartment. He set the drawings down on his desk as he made for his spirit book, and once he had it, he pulled out his phone and texted Mr. Laurence. He explained Andrew's unique living situation and his theory that it had delayed Andrew's realization. He'd allow Mr. Laurence to do whatever he wished with that information.

Once that was done, he opened up his book and jotted down a new entry on Andrew's page.

_September 8th— Met with Andrew in his apartment for dinner. He made a slightly spicy stir fry called lomo saltado, and said that both he and the dish are Peruvian. He works as a professional artist selling work online, mostly paintings, and he presented me with some drawings of myself as well as one to give to Lily._

_Also, while I don't like to flatter myself, it seems Iike little ol' Andy may or may not have a bit of a crush on me._


	7. Calm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OBLIGATORY APOLOGY: Further apologies to anyone following multiple works of mine, as you'll see this exact message more than once.
> 
> I am VERY sorry for my longer-than-usual delay in updating. I've always been slow when it comes to writing, but it's been difficult for me to keep up with it lately. Unfortunately, I have had very severe writer's block since my father's death on July 21st. Planning the service and making next of kin arrangements has also taken up a lot of my family's time, and being with them is my primary focus right now. Again, sorry for the wait, but hopefully you can all understand.

After the meeting in Andrew's apartment, Michael felt like he was beginning to understand things a bit better. The energy in the building felt less unstable. Even Lily seemed more and more coherent. Andrew's drawing, it seemed, had helped her a lot. She'd looked quite touched when Michael gave it to her.

At the same time, Andrew's attachment to Michael grew more serious. Michael didn't mind spending time with him, as he did enjoy his company, but it worried him. Spirits who didn't like to be alone sometimes became troublesome. It often meant that they were afraid of something, or running away from something. And Michael still didn't know what that something was.

Michael happened to be thinking all of this over as he slowly made his way to his apartment. His arms were loaded with boxes and folders, so full that he was forced to travel at a snail's pace and had his keyring gripped in between his teeth. He was at the door, trying to get the keys into his hand somehow, when he heard the footsteps running after him down the hallway.

"Hey, let me help you with that!"

Andrew. Of course. Michael looked around to make sure that no one else was nearby. Any normal person, if he were to let Andrew carry something, would just see a box floating in the air, and he didn't want to scare anyone. But the hallway was empty, and so he relented.

"Thank you," he said as he let Andrew take several of the objects from him. He unlocked the door and allowed them both inside.

Andrew didn't cross the threshold right away. Michael would have been surprised if he had. Michael's apartment had an array of spiritual magnifiers and artifacts and charms and plenty of sage, so it was probably a place that felt strange to a ghost. Andrew stood still for a moment, squinting at something that even Michael couldn't see, and then shook his head and let himself in.

"You can set everything down on the kitchen table. I don't need to get to it right away," Michael said as he did just that with his stack. Andrew obeyed him.

"What's all this for, anyway? I never see you carrying this much stuff!"

Michael didn't comment on the implication in that sentence that Andrew did, in fact, watch him from time to time.

"Oh, it's nothing, really— one of the other writers quit on us all of a sudden, and he had several projects in progress. My boss told me to take all of his notes and things."

"Wh— You mean you have to finish all of it for him?!"

"It's not like I have to get it all done by tomorrow. My boss simply doesn't want the work to go to waste."

Michael really didn't think it was that big of a deal. He enjoyed writing, and there wasn't much pressure. He was just recycling the bits and pieces of what Jenkins had left them. But, then, his family had always criticized him for working too hard, so it was very possible that his gauge of these things was off. After a minute of thinking on it, Andrew laughed shyly.

"I-I guess I can't lecture you for working too much... I mean, all I ever do is paint. And bug you, I guess."

"No one's bugging me. I already told you that you were welcome to visit my apartment, didn't I?"

"...Yeah, you did." Andrew did his best to recover from embarrassment and wandered around as Michael slightly organized the files. He stopped near the shelf full of spiritual mementos. Michael had an idea of what he was staring at. "...Isn't that...?"

Michael looked up. Andrew was pointing at the series of three drawings that had been hung in a single customized frame above the shelf. Michael shrugged.

"Well, don't sound so uncertain, Andy. Or do you not recognize your own work?" he asked teasingly.

"That— That's not what I meant! Y-You didn't have to go and get them framed!"

"Is art not meant to be displayed?"

Andrew didn't seem to know how to respond to that. His face was about as red as it could get, and he studied the drawings from the corner of his eye.

"I-I guess," he sighed. The agreement didn't stop him from fidgeting.

Michael would have assumed that Andrew was just artistically modest, but he made a living selling his art, so that wouldn't make much sense. He had to know that it was good if people were willing to pay so much for it. He should have been more than accustomed to the idea that people were displaying his art on their walls, but for whatever reason, he looked like he was embarrassed and unsure of how he should feel. Michael shook his head. He liked Andrew a lot, but he still didn't quite understand the boy.

"I put it there because I like looking at it," he stated simply. It had the opposite of the effect that he'd intended. Andrew turned even redder in the face and scurried away to focus his attention elsewhere.

"...You have a lot of books," Andrew mumbled. It was true. Michael had crammed ceiling-high shelves wherever he could fit them, and each one was full or nearly full. Not just with books, but also with notebooks and journals that he'd already filled to the brim with his writing and some little shadowboxes and sculptures that he was rather proud of. "Are these dioramas?!" Andrew commented once he'd noticed them. Michael smiled.

"They are. Historical and mythological scenes, mostly, but sometimes just pretty things. Like this one." Michael pointed at a glossy black rectangle with an intricate wooden landscape between two slabs of glass. "I can't seem to remember what these are called, but I bought several of them from an Eastern Asian merchant somewhere in Boston."

Andrew looked mesmerized as he studied the finely detailed woodwork. He, as an artist, probably appreciated it more than Michael could. He likely had a better idea of the level of skill needed to create it.

"They're cork carvings. Chinese, probably, but the Japanese have them too," Andrew informed him. "I've always liked them, and I kind of wish I could make something like it, but I don't have the patience to learn something super-detailed like that. That's why I like making big paintings— plenty of room to hide your mistakes!"

"I'd imagine so."

For the next ten minutes, Andrew had a grand old time going through Michael's bookshelves. Michael had spent the last few years collecting hardbacks and first editions and fancy-looking tomes, and he was rather proud of his collection. He had just about all of the classics and plenty of history books, and an entire shelf dedicated to true crime novels. Yet another was reserved for mysteries. Andrew seemed to ignore Michael's equally large collection of books on the paranormal. Was he still scared of ghosts, or was he trying to avoid having a realization?

Michael decided that he'd try and make Andrew feel more comfortable, more welcome. Since Andrew had a studio apartment, Michael had seen the whole of his home, including the place where he slept. So Michael got Andrew's attention and led him to a door.

"My room is over here. You can see it, if you'd like."

Andrew made a strange face, a very fleeting one, and then seemed to light up.

"I-I mean, if it's okay with you..."

"I wouldn't offer if I wasn't alright with it, would I?" He chuckled and opened the door. Andrew couldn't hide how eager he was to duck under Michael's arm and run inside. He made a pleased sound as soon as he got a good look.

Michael's room, like Andrew's apartment, was crammed full and very personalized.

He'd collected spiritual tools and items to ward off negative energy from many different cultures and types of seers, which, to a normal person, must have looked like a multicultural art display. There were several items resembling dreamcatchers that he'd received from a group of Native American seers in Arizona, strangely-shaped candles from a Cajun family in Lousiana, and all manners of beads and crystals and charms from the many Roma seers that he'd met scattered all over the country. He grew his own sage in a window box to help ward off negative energy. The wooden nightstand right next to his bed held only a lamp, a couple of crystals, and two shelves full of well-worn books. His personal favorites, which he reread so often that he liked having them within the reach of his bed.

At that moment, Andrew was studying Michael's journalism board. It was on the wall by his bed so that he could sit there and rearrange it comfortably. He collected articles and photos there. It was his source of inspiration from the moment he woke up. It kept him focused and full of ideas. The board also included printouts of some of his mother's best blog posts, but hopefully, Andrew wouldn't read those too closely.

Andrew giggled.

"You're unexpectedly cute."

" _Cute?_ " Michael was sure that no one had ever used that word to describe him. Andrew nodded.

"You're kind of a nerd! You've got this little cave of books and newspaper stuff... It's very endearing."

"...I suppose that's better than you thinking of me as strange." Michael didn't know how Andrew had expected him to react to that comment. It was almost openly flirtatious. Andrew ignored Michael's face in favor of picking up the book sitting on the nightstand.

"I have this book," Andrew quietly realized. "I've just never gotten around to reading it. ...It looks like you've read it about a million times!"

That much was obvious. He'd never been able to find a hardback edition, so the paperback cover was folded and marked at the binding and some of the yellowed pages still bore the marks from where they'd once been dog-eared— he'd since learned to use proper bookmarks to avoid this, but as a child, he hadn't been quite that careful. There was a handwritten note from his mother inside the front cover. He'd has this very book since he was ten, and had long since lost track of how many times he'd read it.

"Probably somewhere in that ballpark," Michael laughed. "It's always brought me great comfort."

"Comfort?" Andrew's eyebrows raised. "I thought it was supposed to be kind of sad."

"It is, but it can be both of those things at once, can't it?"

Andrew didn't answer. Michael sat down on the mattress, right beside where Andrew had made himself comfortable, and folded his hands over his knees as he searched for a suitable explanation.

"...Well, you see, when I was five or six, I became terrified of death. ...Every child has their first encounter with it at some point, and for me, it was very frightening. I didn't understand it, and I didn't know where people went when they died."

He was being _mostly_ honest in the way he was telling this story. He'd left out the fact that, technically, he had been afraid of _second_ deaths. His mother had explained his abilities to him as soon as he could understand, just so that he didn't have to learn the hard way.

But the first time he'd seen his mother help a spirit pass on, at the tender age of five, he'd been frightened by it. He had not known where the spirit would go after that. Why would they refuse to leave this world if what was beyond it was better? He'd had to face the crisis of mortality very early and very directly.

"...Nobody really does know," Andrew mumbled. "We like to pretend that we do, but we'll only ever have our guesses."

"Yes, well... My mother wanted me to know that it didn't have to be a scary thing. So one night, she read me this story for the first time. It's very long for a bedtime story, so it took many hours, but... I felt at peace after that. The afterlife— in this particular book, it's a quiet and restful place in the stars. There's nothing scary about that."

"...Huh." Andrew studied the book more closely, like he was seeing it differently now that he had that information. "Did she give this one to you?"

Michael smiled warmly as he recalled the exchange.

"She did, but not until I was ten. I had had a... somewhat traumatic experience, another run-in with the reality of death. So she left me my own copy of the book, hidden under my pillow. I read it every single night until I felt better."

Andrew nodded very slowly and opened the front cover, reading the note there. Michael saw him mouthing the words.

It was the kind of note that would only make sense to someone who had that necessary piece of information.

_Mikey: There is nothing to be afraid of. This, like all things, shall pass. —Mom_

 

* * *

 

Andrew had little excuse to stick around after seeing Michael's bedroom. He let himself out after bidding him a fond farewell and returned to his own apartment.

He stood still, with his eyes closed, for a couple of minutes as soon as the door was closed, his back pressed firmly against it. He breathed deeply, calmly. For whatever reason, he always felt a lot calmer after speaking with Michael. Lily had said something similar. Maybe he just had that effect on people.

The room was now dark. And after what he'd thought was only a couple of minutes. The curtain of night had fallen without his realizing it. His sense of time seemed so warped these days— every morning he would start his routine, and then he'd zone out completely and regain clarity standing in front of a canvas with a paintbrush in hand and no memory of when he'd showered or when he'd picked out the clothes he was wearing. It was another piece of the puzzle that was his predicament.

He turned on several of his twinkling lights and pendant lamps, casting a warm and comforting glow over the room, and found one of his favorite star charts on his wall.

Andrew remembered, vaguely, how old he was, but he couldn't remember what day he was born on. He only knew his star sign— _Leo_. That knowledge had led him to trying to narrow down his potential birthdays, and it had led to a general fascination with space and the planets and astrology. He'd apparently had such an interest even before the start of his amnesia, as most of the posters and books had already been in his apartment. As Andrew studied his chart, he wondered when Michael was born and what his sign was.

He was struck by a sudden wave of fatigue and went to lie down in his hammock, once again finding that he didn't remember changing into his pajamas. Just as he was about to roll over and go to sleep, a thought formed:

_Maybe I could use a bedtime story._

He walked to his bookshelf, took out his yet unread copy of _Night on the Galactic Railroad_ , and got comfortable in his sleeping nest.

If Michael loved this book so dearly, then it had to be a good story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Help I've used Night on the Galactic Railroad in two different stories (it's just got such strong symbolic and serene imagery though and such a mature theme for a children's story— it's SO GOOD please read it)


	8. Tension

"Cross? You listenin' to me? We've got plenty'a shots. We can head back."

"Ah. Right."

Michael didn't say anything more and slowly moved to put his camera back into its bag. He didn't move his eyes from where he'd been looking before. Scott Conway, the other reporter with him, laughed.

"The shots are fine, Cross. You're such a friggin' perfectionist! ...It's not as light out as I'd want it to be, but y'know how the boss is. He wants the pictures now."

"...You're probably right," Michael agreed. "Let's... get going, then."

Michael looked over his shoulder a couple of times as they walked away. It wasn't the lighting that he'd been so intrigued by. It was the woman in her thirties and wearing a white dress that had been standing right in the middle of his shot, just staring at him without moving or speaking. Conway couldn't see her, though, seeing as she was dead.

As always, the pictures looked fine. No sign of that woman. Ghosts generally didn't show up on normal film unless they really, _really_ wanted to. He thought about that woman in white, and wondered what her story was, as he walked home.

He found someone waiting near his apartment.

"Lily. Sweetie. What brings you up here?"

Lily didn't answer right away. She played with the ears of her stuffed rabbit. Something in her expression was sullen.

"...Mr. Mike? Can I tell you a story?"

Michael was immediately intrigued. He knelt down in front of her.

"What kind of a story?"

"...About... A-About me. And why I'm still here."

That gave Michael a moment of pause. It was sure to be an unpleasant kind of story. Lily was painfully young, and she'd been trapped here for so long.

"You remember all of that?"

"...Mm-hm."

Michael looked her over, concluding that she truly was ready and willing to talk, and smiled, giving her a pat on the head.

"Sure, then. I'd love to hear your story. But..." He looked around and stood up, offering her a hand. "...Not here. We don't want anyone eavesdropping. How about we go to the roof? The sun is out, and the sky is very pretty."

Lily contemplated this, chewing on her lip, and then hesitantly took his hand. Her little fingers were ice-cold, but Michael had gotten used to this. It wasn't unpleasant when it was expected.

Michael led Lily up the stairwell and out onto the roof, where he closed the door. She got distracted looking at the birds for a while before joining him again. He had set up two of the lawn chairs that Mr. Laurence kept in the little storage shack up there.

Michael sat in silence for several minutes, waiting for Lily to begin. She seemed to be fighting some urge to change her mind and flee.

"...I... I died in a fire."

He hadn't quite expected that kind of a delivery. It was more of an admission than a story.

"You did?"

"Yeah. In our apartment. I didn't want to leave until I found Molly."

"Who's Molly?"

Lily squeezed the stuffed rabbit.

"This is Molly. ...She's my only friend."

"That's not true. Not anymore. You have me, and you have Andy, don't you?"

"...Y-You're right." Her brow furrowed. "Mr. Andy is... like me, isn't he?"

Michael paused.

"He is."

"...I don't... I don't think he knows."

Michael let out an involuntary sound, something between a sigh and a chuckle. Like a sad laugh. Even Lily had noticed.

"He doesn't."

"Why don't you tell him? ...Should _I_ tell him?"

Michael shook his head slowly, giving her a sympathetic smile.

"I don't think he's ready, sweetheart. He wouldn't understand." He tried to distract himself from that admittedly depressing train of thought. Not that the current topic was any less depressing, but it served a purpose and hinted towards progress. "But we aren't talking about Andy, we're talking about you. What sort of a story did you want to tell me?"

"...Ah. The story." Lily fiddled with her hair. She didn't meet Michael's eyes when she spoke. "...Well... The fire started really fast, and I couldn't make it out in time. The firemen didn't get there quick enough. I couldn't find Molly. I died. It hurt. It hurt a lot, but nobody came.

"I thought I would go to heaven, because mommy and daddy said that's where people go when they die, but... I stayed here. I couldn't leave the building. Nobody could see me. I cried a lot at first because I thought they were being mean to me and didn't want to play with me. Even mommy and daddy couldn't see me. So... So they didn't know I was there when they talked about the money they got for the fire. They did it on purpose. They set the apartment on fire so they could make some more money. They had some kind of collection and got money for it. And they made everybody think it was Mr. Landlord's fault and got him to secretly pay them more money to not get him in trouble."

Michael grit his teeth. Her parents' irrational decisions had cost their daughter her life. What if the fire had spread to other apartments and claimed more victims? Had they not even bothered to clear the apartment before setting it   
aflame?

...Or, perhaps, had they _wanted_ her to die in there? He didn't voice this concern aloud. If that thought wasn't already on Lily's radar, he didn't want to be the one to put it there.

"...Did they know that you were inside?"

Lily shrugged.

"They knew after. I had a very nice funeral. But... how come they didn't come and get me before I died? Did they... Did they hate me? Did they want me to die? Was it because I was bad?"

Michael couldn't help the displeased noise that he made. There was a noticeable moisture in Lily's eyes as she asked those questions. It was no wonder that Lily had been stuck here for decades. There was a very real possibility that she'd been murdered by her own parents, and in perhaps the most painful of ways. At the very least, they'd been selfish enough to let her die for a fraudulent insurance claim.

"...Lily," he began tactfully, "you didn't do anything to deserve that. The blame lies on their shoulders, not yours."

"But parents are supposed to be good," Lily argued, clearly not understanding. Her parents must have been nice to her before carelessly tossing her to an inferno. "I'll bet that your mommy and daddy are nice."

"...That's not true, sweetheart. My mother is nice, but I haven't seen my father since I was even younger than you are."

Lily tilted her head, her eyes widening in surprise as Michael managed a thin smile. It wasn't like it was _painful_ to talk about. As he'd told Andrew, he had barely known the man. But he didn't like thinking about what it must have done to his mother (as much as she insisted that she'd been unscathed), or the simple reminder that there were so many awful people out there.

"Why not?" Lily asked, pouting.

"I... don't really know why. I never got to ask him. All I know is that he went out to get cigarettes one day and then never came back." He closed his eyes as he reflected upon the experience, on what his mother's explanation had been. "...You see, most people can't see or hear the dead. People like me, who can, are called seers, and I inherited my abilities from my mother. My sister has them, too. ...Our father thought that our mother was merely superstitious, or perhaps some kind of medium. But when my sister and I began to tell him about our own experiences... he realized that we were all telling the truth. That the dead really did walk among us, and that he was blind to that and powerless against it. ...My mother firmly believes that he ran away because he was afraid."

"...Oh." Lily looked oddly guilty. "Is it hard to have your powers? You must see lots of scary things..."

 _You have no idea_. A cold shiver ran down Michael's spine, but he masked that with a reassuring smile.

"I do, sometimes," he said honestly, "but I also get to meet fascinating people that so few others will. And I've made many good friends."

"...Friends that disappear."

"But everything disappears, Lily. Everything and everyone. Sometimes it's a little sooner than we would like, but that _is_ the way of things."

"...I guess that's true."

"We're getting sidetracked, though." Michael leaned forward. "...Adults are _not_ perfect. They aren't. Sometimes they make foolish and selfish decisions, and children are expected to go along with it simply because they're children. What power do they have to fight back? It's... not always fair, and you have every right to be confused and to be angry. Nothing I can say to you will ever explain why they did what they did. So I won't insult your intelligence by offering excuses for them."

Lily seemed surprised by the blunt nature of his words, but didn't seem to be offended.

Talking to spirits like Lily was always complicated. Because she was a child, but she was also older than him, since she'd been a part of this world for decades. Figuring out what she did and didn't understand had proven to be tricky. But as it turned out, speaking to her as if she was an adult worked so long as he avoided the sorts of technical subjects that she hadn't gotten to learn in school.

"That said..." She looked up, apparently surprised, when Michael continued. "You don't owe them this much of yourself. To allow their selfishness to affect you for decades... Why should they have that much power over you? You've given them more of your time than they deserve."

"...I guess you're right," Lily reluctantly admitted. "But... it hurts. It still hurts."

"I know that it does. But that will likely never go away as long as you cling to life. The other side— it's peaceful there. Quiet. You'll finally be able to rest."

Lily pouted and crossed her arms.

"How would _you_ know?!"

Michael looked up at the sky— blue, seamless, and infinite.

"I saw it once. For just a moment."

"...Oh."

Lily didn't apologize in words, but her expression made that intent clear. She didn't say much after that. She seemed to be thinking things over, and Michael had to allow her time to do so. She had decades of baggage to unload before she could arrive at any sort of concrete decision.

"I think I'm going to go to sleep for a while."

The announcement was unexpected. Michael raised his head to study her. She looked weary, but not unhappy. He nodded.

"Whatever will help you think. Do whatever it is that you feel you must do. And when you wake up, I'll be waiting. You just come and find me."

Lily gave only a hum of confirmation and a slight nod before she vanished, dissipating like fog. Michael stared at the seat she had once occupied for a few moments before he moved to put the chairs away.

Michael got halfway back to his apartment before it occurred to him that he had forgotten to check his mail. Which meant that Andrew was probably lingering somewhere in the lobby, waiting to coincidentally run into him. He sped-walked down the stairs and rounded the corner to the mail lockers as casually as he could, as he didn't want it to be obvious that he'd hurried there.

As he had expected, Andrew was there. He pretended that he had just gotten there and started to open up his locker.

"Oh— hello, Michael!"

He called out a greeting, but didn't turn around, and Michael could plainly see why. He'd ordered a few small canvases, and whoever had put them into his locker had done so at an awkward angle.

"...Do you need some help with that?"

"N-No, I've got it! It's just a matter of maneuvering it without tearing the corners..."

Andrew tugged a couple of times, and then he made a victorious sound as the canvases safely popped out. With them, though, came a flurry of papers and envelopes. Michael chuckled at Andrew's embarrassed expression.

Michael knelt down to help collect the stray mail. Andrew quickly followed him to the floor, making a strangled noise of protest.

"Y-You really don't have to—"

"It'll only take me a moment, Andy."

He ignored the other man and collected the three blue sheets and the oversized envelope near his foot. He glanced at them, not intending to pay it much mind.

And then he froze.

Michael blinked, unmoving, at the stack of papers in his hands as Andy scrambled about, desperately collecting the excess scraps and flyers. A new riddle had appeared before him where he had least expected it.

He knew it was never a good idea to push these things. It was none of his business. But a creeping tendril of dread seemed to climb its way across his gut, leaving him unsettled and uneasy. He did not like that feeling.

All of Andrew's mail— each and every package and letter— was addressed to one _Miguel Hernandez_. _Not_ Andrew Guzman.

" _I'll_ take that," Andrew said as he snatched the stack away. His hands were visibly shaking.

Michael didn't stand up right away. He continued to kneel as he contemplated the possibilities of what he'd seen. Maybe he was overreacting— Andrew had vaguely mentioned using an anonymous handle to sell his artwork. Maybe that handle was linked to a nonexistent man.

Still... Michael couldn't shake the feeling that Andrew, or Miguel, or _whatever his name was_ had come to this run-down apartment complex because he hadn't wanted to be found.

"...Are you alright?"

"Ah." Michael stood and brushed dust from his pants. "I'm just fine, thank you. I was just thinking about work."

Andrew didn't quite seem to buy the lie like he usually would, and he was careful about shoving his mail into his usual carrying bag in such a way that Michael could not see the labels. Michael managed to change the subject and get the other man smiling and laughing again without too much trouble, though.

That _was_ the case, anyway, until an irritatingly familiar voice cut its way into the conversation.

"There he is— didn't I tell you? He's doing it again!"

Even Michael hadn't seen this coming. Miss Friedman. Her timing couldn't possibly be any worse. Michael continued to stare Andrew down and didn't dare turn to look at her.

"Miss Friedman," he called, unable to mask the apprehension in his voice. "I think that maybe you ought to mind your own business. My conversations are no concern of yours."

Michael Cross was rarely rude to anyone. Veronica Friedman left him no choice. She snorted, and he imagined her rolling her eyes. Whoever she was with and speaking to giggled at the exchange.

"I do mind my own business, kid. It's not like it's my fault that you're just plain crazy. Who the hell are you talking to?"

"He's talking to me! I'm standing right here!" Andrew argued. Michael winced. Neither of the women reacted to his outburst. They hadn't heard it.

"Don't be rude, ma'am. I'm speaking with a very good friend of mine."

"Whatever makes you feel better."

With that bitter remark, Miss Friedman's footsteps, as well as her companion's, moved away. Michael heard them heading down the hallway. He took in a deep breath and tried to salvage the situation as best he could.

"That woman... I don't like to be so blunt if I can avoid it, but she always has something unkind to say, and I simply couldn't—"

" _I was standing right here_."

Michael paused. Andrew was clearly upset. This was likely because (as much as he tried to consciously ignore it) he knew that something about his own existence was strange. What Miss Friedman had said had triggered a very particular kind of anxiety in him. And Michael honestly didn't know if he was equipped to handle that without any warning. He pulled out his cell phone to check the time, not yet realizing that he was making an enormous mistake.

"I know, Andy, I know. Miss Friedman is just a bully, and you shouldn't pay her any mind. ...If you're free, perhaps you'd like to come to my apartment again? I was planning on making—"

"Don't try and change the subject!" Andrew shouted. "I-I was standing right here. She saw me. I know she saw me! She heard me, too, because I'm real! I know I'm real!"

"...Of course you are. You and I both know that."

"No, you— you're not listening to me. You're not listening! I-If you don't believe me, then..."

Without any warning, Andrew snatched the phone right out of Michael's hand and moved to open up the camera. Michael realized what was happening, and he realized it too late. He put up his hands in protest. His words couldn't catch up with his mouth for a painfully long second.

"Andy, I believe you. This isn't necessary—"

"How about we take a selfie?! A commemorative photograph! To mark the occasion!"

" _Andrew!_ "

"No, it'll be fine!"

Andrew's voice was heavily sarcastic, and laced with a bitter edge. He lifted the phone into the air and pointed the camera lens at himself and at Michael. Simple human instinct made Michael look at it. He saw the camera light flash. It was too late to stop the incoming revelation.

Andrew pulled the phone close to himself and eagerly scrolled to the picture he'd just taken.

His expression turned blank, and then it soured. Michael saw the fear and confusion swimming through his eyes.

"...I need my phone back, Andy." He didn't know what else to say, but he didn't want to give Andrew too much time to think about it.

"Where... Where am I...?"

Michael knew exactly what Andrew was so bothered by. He knew that only he, and not Andrew, would be visible in the photograph. Even Michael would be alarmed if he took a picture of himself and saw nothing on the film.

"You must have misaimed," Michael lied. He snatched the phone back, taking advantage of Andrew's shock. Andrew clenched the now-empty hand into a fist, lowering it, trembling, to his side, and glared at him.

"If that's really what happened, then why don't _you_ take a picture of me?"

"...I, um..."

Michael's discomfort must have shown plainly on his face. Andrew scoffed.

" _You must have—_ " Andrew bit his lip and choked back frustrated tears. "You must have done something to the phone, or to the camera. This is some kind of messed up joke, right?!"

"Andy," Michael said cautiously, "I wouldn't do something like that to you. You know that, don't you?"

" _Apparently_ , I don't know anything! ...I-If this _is_ some kind of prank—"

"It isn't a prank! I pro—"

"I've never liked pranks anyway. I-I thought..." Andrew paused to shake his head, his eyes glistening. "I thought you were different."

With that, Andrew turned and ran away, and without so much as remembering to close his mail locker. Michael watched and made no effort to follow. He knew that it would only make things worse, and that Andrew needed to process this reality on his own.

He knew this for a fact, and yet still— for the first time in years, Michael Cross felt completely powerless.


	9. Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for my crazy long absence, everybody. I assure you that I’m still writing and that none of my stories will be left unfinished. I’m just stuck in that frustrating phase where all of my “work” has little to show for it. Outlining and rewriting and whatnot. I’m also planning a few future pieces— my imagination works a lot faster than my brain, unfortunately!

Michael didn't see much of Andrew Guzman for about two weeks.

Lily, too, was quiet. She only appeared once every couple of days, usually just to ask one or two ambiguous questions before disappearing once more.

Michael searched the building for more ghosts, hoping to find something else to divert his attention with, and found nothing. The building's paranormal activity had nearly ceased. There were still those disembodied voices and footsteps, of course, and even flickers of visions, but those were only energy imprints. Not sentient. Meaning that even Michael couldn't do anything about them.

With so little to do around the apartment, he found himself working more than ever before. He finished all of Conway's articles and reports faster than he'd thought possible. His project backlog, too, was now empty.

Normally, when he had this little to do, he'd call his mother, but she was away at some paranormal conference. His sister was apparently too busy to keep him company just because he was bored. She didn't bother to invent any excuses, and he wasn't about to admit that he was lonely and had messed up, as he wasn't in the mood for one of her usual lectures.

Michael sighed and allowed his head to hit the surface of his desk. He had no choice but to face it now— he missed Andrew. The boy had clearly enjoyed Michael's company and had always gone out of his way to "run into" him. Andrew had always had a way of making Michael feel like he was doing some grand favor in so much as talking to him. But, at some point, that had begun to change. Michael had started checking his mail every day, and at the same time, on purpose. Because he knew that Andrew was shy about approaching him. He had started to look forward to those meetings.

Michael, for better or worse, considered Andrew a friend.

He didn't like thinking this way. He saw little point in wallowing in despair and staying stuck in one place. Michael groaned and stood up and left his apartment, making a beeline for the rooftop. Maybe he'd catch Andrew painting up there, as the boy had mentioned doing so from time to time ever since Michael had recommended it. It was at least worth a try, he thought.

"Mr. Mike?"

Lily's voice stopped him in his tracks. Michael turned to find her standing behind him, Molly the rabbit tucked under her arm and a resolved expression on her face. Something about her was different. He felt it in the air around her.

"Lily," he said, half word and half sigh of relief. "I was wondering where you had gone. I haven't seen much of you these days." His mouth settled into an unconscious frown. "...Did you need something?"

There was a long and heavy silence. Lily didn't avert her gaze.

"You told me to come and find you when I wanna leave. ...I'm ready to go to sleep now."

Michael was, honestly, surprised to hear those words for a moment. That feeling passed quickly. Lily was made of something stronger than him. It was no wonder that she'd been able to accept things so quickly. He nodded.

"I'm glad," he said, and he was mostly honest in saying so. "If you'd like, you can come to my apartment—"

"I don't want to be inside. That's where l died. I wanna look at the sky."

Michael nodded again, pursing his lips. It made sense, but his apartment was the easiest place to use, and performing a ceremony anywhere else could result in being seen by others. Despite his concerns, Lily's wishes had to come before anything else. He nodded for a third time, mostly to himself.

"...Alright, then. We'll use the roof. But I'll need to get some things from my apartment first."

Lily didn't seem to mind waiting and did so patiently. This came as little surprise— she'd been waiting, in some form or another, for decades. Michael returned to her with a worn leather tote bag and took her hand, and together, they walked to the roof.

There was a chill in the air, and the sun was concealed by clouds. Not the sort of warm welcome he would have liked, but he didn't get to choose such things.

"What's that for?" Lily asked, watching as Michael laid out a cloth blanket with something like a magic circle sewn into it. He gestured for her to sit down on it, and she obeyed.

"These are artifacts handed down in my family," he answered simply. "They'll help speed up this process and get you there safely."

Michael draped a little amulet around her neck. It was a small pouch, and it contained only a mineral rock, a dried and pressed flower, and a few tiny sprigs of various herbs tied together with a red thread. He lit a candle that he set down between them, crossed his legs, and wrapped a long string of beads around his hands.

"Do you always have to do all of this?" Lily asked, sounding slightly amused. Michael smiled as he shook his head.

"Not every time. Some people decide to leave on their own, for one thing. You need some help, and there's no shame in that. ...Other times, I'm in a hurry and don't have time to prepare all of this. Think of it as a formality."

It _was_ , largely, a simple formality. The artifacts helped balance out and remove negative energies, just in case something went wrong, and kept both the seer and the spirit in the required state of calm and focus. Performing such a ritual sapped a great deal of Michael's spiritual energy, leaving him feeling lethargic for days, without the help of his family heirlooms. It wasn't _impossible_ to help an especially troubled spirit pass on without them, but it _was_ significantly more difficult. If he got to decide, he always used the family traditions.

Michael looked up at the sky. It was a dark slate-grey, like the promise of rain. He frowned at the sight of it. He didn't consider himself a superstitious man (as strange a thing as that was to say for a man who spent half of his life chasing ghosts), but he couldn't help but feel like that kind of sky was a bad omen. He couldn't afford to be distracted by such petty things, though. He cleared his head.

"...Lily. Close your eyes."

"Okay."

As soon as she obeyed, she started to glow. It was so soft that it was barely noticeable, but it was still a good sign. She really was ready.

"...Clear your mind. Don't think about anything but peaceful things. Think about what heaven will be like and let go of everything else."

"Okay."

Lily breathed deeply. It was easier said than done, of course, to let go of the kind of pain she'd endured. Even so, she was doing a remarkable job. Michael felt the negative energy leaving her and building up within him. It was an unpleasant sensation that he'd learned to like, somewhat, if only because he knew what it meant.

"Good. You're doing wonderfully. Keep thinking happy thoughts, and I'll say a prayer for you."

"...Okay."

Michael spoke his "prayer" very quietly. The proper term— the one his mother used— was _mantra_ , but he'd always referred to it, when speaking aloud to spirits, as a prayer.

Every seer had their own mantra. It was something that existed only in their memories— such a deeply personal and sacred thing that to write it down or speak it to another living person was considered a great taboo. Michael had, since he was seven, had his own prayer, and it had changed very little with time.

It wasn't a prayer in that he was speaking to any specific god. A _prayer_ , for Michael, was a plea into a selfish, senseless void and to whatever nameless beings oversaw it. It was a request for mercy directed at the shadowy figures he sometimes saw at night that didn't belong to any of the worlds he knew. It was a desperate cry for help, and it was all that he or anyone else had when facing down death itself.

The metaphorical doors to the layer beyond widened. Michael felt cold sweat bead his brow. He hadn't told Lily the truth about this old ritual and what it entailed. He was never honest with spirits about it. It was more than a simple helping hand— it was a transferral of energy. He was taking Lily's darkness from her and sifting through it. He was wading through a lake of anger and sadness and painful memories. The toll on his mind and immortal soul, if he were less careful and less experienced, could be devastating. He knew this. But this was the brand of ritual that he preferred, and he had his reasons.

He saw it. The fire. He bit his lip as he felt the brief physical sensation of Lily's death wash over him. And when that happened, he didn't just _feel_ her anger— he _understood it_. In that moment, she was truly justified. And while she didn't know _why_ , she felt that sense of acceptance, and it gave her resolve and peace of mind. That was how this ritual worked.

The pain came and passed like a chilly November wind. When it was through, Michael found himself— a spiritual projection of himself, anyway— standing beside Lily, her hand in his, her rabbit tucked beneath her other arm. They stood side by side before a darkened and hazy shape. It wasn't quite a door, but Michael knew that he couldn't enter. It wasn't yet time for him to do so.

"That's it, isn't it?"

"That's it. That's where heaven is."

Lily stared into that incomprehensible abyss for a moment before she looked up at Michael and smiled.

"Take care of Molly for me, okay?"

She handed over the rabbit. Michael cradled it gently, releasing her hand in the process, and made a noise of confirmation. Lily curtsied. Her smile widened.

"Goodbye, Mr. Mike. Thanks for everything!"

Michael waved, doing his best to return her smile.

"Farewell, Lily. It's been fun. ...Be at peace."

With that, she was gone. She skipped into the darkened haze, and her figure evaporated like fog.

In only a moment, it all came rushing back. The force of his soul being sucked back into his body and pulled away from the layer between worlds always sent a shock through his system that forced him to take a sharp gasp of air. Those first couple of seconds were like learning to breathe for the first time.

Sensation flooded back slowly as Michael's nerves learned how to feel again. He became aware, dully, of the sound of distant thunder, of the drop in temperature around him. The rain would start soon— the air was muddy with the feeling of it, and he could smell it.

Michael's _other_ senses, the ones that most people didn't have, took longer to return and to adjust. As his sixth sense began to operate again, he could only detect a fuzzy _something_ somewhere nearby. He slowly opened his eyes, seeing only the empty blanket and the stuffed rabbit before him, and furrowed his brow in confusion. What was—

" _What the hell did you just do?_ ”

Everything stopped. Michael could hear only his own heartbeat.

Michael's sixth sense functioned as something of a sonar ray, or perhaps as an invisible extra limb. He used it to scan the area around him at all times, like a blind man feeling around with his cane. It was how he was always able to sense Andrew's distinctive presence even when he wasn't looking in his direction.

What he had not realized, until this very moment, was that performing a traditional passage ritual forced all of his spiritual energy to be focused in one direction. Which left him vulnerable to being ambushed.

For the first time, Andrew had successfully snuck up on Michael. And he'd done it at the worst possible time.

"Andy."

It was the only thing that Michael could think to say in that moment. Like a reminder that they knew one another, that they were fond of one another. Or had been, anyway. Andrew shook his head, taking a fearful step back.

"Where did she go?!"

"She's alright, really. She's where she was meant to be—"

" _What the hell does that mean?!_ "

Rain was coming. Michael instinctively collected his family's artifacts and shoved them back into his bag. Regardless of the circumstances, he couldn't let them get destroyed by the rain. He tried not to think about how badly he might have messed things up. When he'd finished, he took a deep breath.

"I'm... sorry that I couldn't tell you before," he began. "But I wasn't sure how you would react. Lily... wasn't supposed to be here. All that I did was help her pass on. To the other side."

" _The other side_ ," Andrew spat. "Like... heaven? The afterlife...?

Michael nodded.

"Precisely— see, she was meant to be there years ago, but she was trapped—"

"So you _did_ kill her! You're admitting as much!"

Michael flinched at the unexpected ferocity in Andrew's voice. His face was even worse. An Andrew that was glaring and clenching his fists didn't look much like Andrew at all. Not the one that he'd gotten to know, anyway. Michael knew that he had to be careful. He had to be _very_ careful. The sky grew darker, and there was a clap of rumbling thunder.

Michael took a long, deep breath and closed his eyes to steel his nerves. When his eyelids fluttered back open, he said it, and in as calm a voice as possible:

"I did not kill her, Andrew. I cannot kill something that is already dead."

Another thunderclap. Somehow, the deafening silence of Andrew's refusal to provide a response right away was louder, making the ominous sound a dull thump in Michael's ears. Andrew opened and closed his mouth several times as the first of the raindrops began to fall.

"...Dead? ...You're telling me Lily was _dead?_ "

Andrew wasn't shouting. He was far too quiet. Michael gulped and nodded. There was a fear in his mind and a racing in his pulse that he had nearly forgotten.

"Yes. She was a spirit."

"But I asked you about that, and.... you specifically told me that you knew Lily _wasn't_ a ghost."

There was a sharp and fleeting pain in Michael's chest. He _had_ said that. He'd looked him directly in the eyes and said that.

"...I did. I lied to you. And I'm sorry, but... you're surprised, are you not? I thought that you weren't ready to know the truth. About her, or.... Or about you. I thought it would only hurt you. And I didn't want that. You know that I don't want to hurt you, don't you?"

Another long silence. Andrew occasionally swallowed and shook his head. If he'd been more alert, he would have noticed that the rain wasn't getting him or his clothing wet. That in and of itself would have been a clue to the truth behind Michael's words. But Andrew refused to accept it, and so he refused to notice something so miniscule.

"...You're wrong," he finally said. "You're wrong. I'm real, and I'm still alive, and I... I can prove it...!" There was an audible ache in Andrew's voice. It cracked, like the words had hurt his throat when they forced their way out. Michael frowned when he heard it. He didn't normally let himself get so worked up over these conversations. This one was different somehow. Andrew furiously shook his head one last time, and his gaze hardened. "I can _prove it!_ "

Andrew turned and stomped angrily away, breaking into a sprint when he reached the dry safety of the stairwell. Michael blinked in surprise before his thoughts caught up with him. He gave chase. If Andrew intended to prove that he was alive, he surely meant for Michael to follow him, didn't he?

They arrived, together, at Andrew's apartment door. Michael was panting. Andrew was not. Andrew didn't technically have any lungs. If he didn't want to be troubled by something like breathing, he didn't have to be. He wouldn't feel a burn in his lungs if he had forgotten, in his purpose, that he was supposed to. His existence was one born of his own presumptions, observations, and subconscious denials. That was the strange reality of cold walkers.

It took Andrew several angry tries to successfully get his door open. He didn't invite Michael in, but he didn't slam the door, either. Michael carefully closed and locked it behind them, fearful of what Andrew had planned. Andrew made a beeline for a specific drawer in his desk and retrieved a photograph and what looked like a cheap, disposable cell phone. The kind that people only used if they thought they might need a new number without much warning. The kind that criminals and people in hiding used.

"Look." Andrew practically shoved the photograph into Michael's chest. "See? That's my sister."

Andrew didn't have to point at the photo to make Michael understand who he was referring to. They were nearly identical. Twins. The only real visible difference between them in the photo was that the sister wore makeup and had long hair.

"She's pretty," Michael said without putting too much thought into it. It was what you were supposed to say when shown a picture of someone's mother or sister, wasn't it? He realized only after saying it that it might make Andrew angry or embarrass him. Seeing as they were _identical_. Sure enough, Andrew snatched the picture back.

"Her name is Maria," Andrew confidently declared. In his stubbornness and anger, he'd retrieved a little bit of memory. He hadn't remembered her name before. "A-And I... I know her phone number. I can call her, and she'll tell you. She'll tell you that I'm not dead!"

Michael shook his head. He took a step closer to Andrew, hoping to steal the phone away, but Andrew saw it coming and stepped back.

"Andy, don't do this. You won't get what you want. You remember what happened with my camera, don't you?" He tried to keep his voice calm, and he failed. Andrew surely heard the panic in his tone. The situation was quickly escalating into something that Michael could no longer control.

" _Quiet!_ " Andrew hissed.

He dialed the number.

It rang several times— enough that Michael thought they might be spared, and that she would not answer. Maria _did_ answer, though, and just before the call would have gone to her voicemail. The sinking feeling in Michael's gut was magnified by the way that she greeted her caller. Her voice was angry and annoyed. Michael couldn't understand her, but he had a feeling that what he was hearing was not a warm greeting directed at a sibling.

"Maria, it's me! Andy! You remember, don't you?!"

Maria did not verify whether or not she did remember. This was because she did not and could not hear him. She spoke over him, her voice growing louder with each phrase, until Andrew seemed to give up and stopped speaking. She shouted one last thing before the call came to an abrupt end.

"...What did she say? I don't speak Spanish," Michael prodded as gently as he could. Andrew stared at the floor, his mouth slightly ajar and his eyes flickering back and forth. The phone fell uselessly from his hand and clattered on the creaky hardwood. Michael didn't wince. He'd expected that much in terms of a reaction.

"She... said she doesn't like pranks."

Andrew's words were so quiet that Michael could barely detect them. It hurt. Andrew had something eerily similar only two weeks ago. Michael couldn't think of what to say. Somehow everything he could think of seemed insulting or trite. _But maybe that's always been true_ , an unfamiliar voice in the back of his head said. _Maybe you're condescending. Maybe everyone else wishes you would stop giving them your unsolicited advice._ _Who died and made you God, anyway? Why do you always assume that you can fix everything?_

Michael felt his muscles tense. The thoughts invading his head were pessimistic and cruel— very much unlike him. There was a sinister feeling to them, both in message and the tone in which they were spoken, like someone else had somehow intruded into his own consciousness. It was an unsettling feeling that he didn't have the words to describe.

He'd felt it before. He'd felt it only once. And he had barely survived.

"...Andy? I-I understand that this may be difficult to accept, but—"

"If I'm _dead_ , then what exactly does that make you?"  
  
Andrew finally spoke up. He finally lifted his head and met Michael's eyes. His face was devoid of expression save for the unnatural wideness of his eyes. His voice was low. The room was unnaturally cold. Michael did not detect the transition in temperature. He couldn't pinpoint the moment that it had _become_ cold. It was not cold, and then it was, as simply as that. He chose to ignore that in favor of focusing on Andrew's question. As frightening as it had sounded.

"What does that... make me? ...I'm not sure what you—"

Andrew's hand shot out and gripped Michael's forearm. The touch wasn't violent, and he did not yet squeeze, but Michael inhaled a sharp gasp of breath. He feared the possible consequences of forcefully pulling away. He feared the possible consequences of remaining still. These thoughts conflicted with themselves in his mind over a deafening hum of negative and unfamiliar ones. He did nothing.

" _You_ don't seem to have any trouble seeing me. You talk to me all the time, right? I shouldn't be able to do this, right?!"

"...That's—"

"But how? That means you _knew_ , didn't you?!"

"Andy, please let go of me."

"Y-You _knew_ something was wrong with me!"

"Andrew, _let go!_ "

"You knew, but you— you came over for dinner and complimented my paintings and let me into your apartment like _nothing was wrong—_ "

"Only because I didn't want—"

Andrew's hand tightened. Michael shook his head. It was useless. It was too late to jerk the limb back.

" _Months!_ You've talked to me for _months! Every single fucking day!_ B-But you never..." Andrew's voice, which had slowly risen in volume until it had become a screech, broke off with a choke as tears began to stream down his face. His eyes remained wide and frenzied. His grip tightened until it felt like a vice. A literal death grip. "You never told me _why!_ Why did this happen?! What am I supposed to do?! Tell me, Michael, _tell me!_ "

With that, Andrew's words became nearly unintelligible. Michael's own thoughts finally came back to him, louder than the other ones that he didn't recognize as his own.

"Andrew, I-I'm warning you—"

Michael tried to be assertive, tried to sound commanding enough that Andrew might listen. The tremor in his voice betrayed him again. The color in Andrew's eyes was fading into a dull and lifeless grey.

" _I-I'm scared!_ "

It happened so quickly that Michael didn't have time to mentally register it until it had passed. Andrew's fingers dug into his arm enough to send a sharp pain through his tender skin. He screamed something, and there was a flash of cracking blue light and the room turned dark for a split second. Michael recalled in vivid detail the worst day of his life, and he recalled how he would have died if his mother hadn't shown up when she did. The flash of light concentrated itself in Andrew's hand. Michael let out a cry of pain, and at that, Andrew suddenly let go. He stepped back as if in a daze, startled out of his rage. Michael took the opportunity and reached into his pocket, numb fingers deftly locating the tin box that he always kept there, until he had it in his grasp, clinging like the little box was life itself.

" _S-Sunt—_ ” He paused to recall the words of his own command. They were words he'd said a thousand times over under his breath, in the dark of night, when he had first memorized them. Words so significant, so full of meaning, that they may as well have been tattooed on his tongue. Even words as familiar as those escaped him for an alarming second. " _Sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt._ "

One swift throw was all it took. A powder scattered in the air. Andrew coughed and withdrew from it, concealing his mouth and nose in his sleeve. Michael retreated to a safe distance, armed and prepared for a second throw if need be.

One "dosage", it seemed, had been enough. When Andrew finished coughing, he looked up and blinked several times as if his eyes were readjusting to the light. Their rich, warm brown had returned, and the malice and terror was gone. The room wasn't cold or dark anymore.

Andy. He was safe.

"What... What _was_ that?! Why'd you throw salt at me?!"

Michael grabbed hold of Andrew by the shoulders. He did not seize him. He touched him as if only to verify that he was still there, that he wouldn't recoil.

"Andy. Are you alright? Do you feel strange?"

"Wh-What happened to your arm?!"

Andrew's eyes were fixed on Michael's forearm— the spot where his hand had been squeezing the life from him only moments ago. Already, the skin was darkening in color, the ivory tone stained with unnaturally-colored and angry blotches.

"That's not important right now. I need you to answer—" Michael paused to hiss through his teeth. The onset of pain was even faster than he remembered it being. "Just tell me. Do you feel like yourself?"

"I-I mean... Sure, I guess," Andrew answered, sounding even more confused than he had before. "Not that that _means_ anything, seeing as I apparently don't exist." He frowned. Michael let go of him.

"Are you angry?"

"Wha— what kind of a question is that?! Of course I'm angry! None of this makes any sense, and I don't understand, and it just... isn't _fair!_ "

"But you don't want to hurt anyone, do you?"

"Of course not!" Andrew sounded offended that Michael would even ask such a question. "I don't hurt people! ...Wait, what are we doing in here? Weren't we on the roof? ...There's salt everywhere..."

Andrew grumbled that last bit and kicked a few of the grains with his foot. Michael released a long sigh of relief and pushed his hair off of his sweaty forehead. The stiffness of his frame gave way and allowed him to hunch over. The effort of standing was quickly becoming too much.

"So you didn't mean it," he huffed. "It wasn't your fault. ...You really don't remember anything from the last several minutes?"

That much was standard. When a spirit started to go dark, they did truly lose themselves. The Andrew that had released that flash of negative energy was a different one. And, hopefully, one that would never return.

"I-I remember you telling me that I'm dead. And I remember seeing Lily... She..." Andrew couldn't finish that sentence. He probably couldn't think of the right word. She had not _died_. She'd already been dead.

"She passed on. Right. That... Hold on a moment."

Michael really couldn't put off the task of calling in backup, and the pain that had already reached his shoulder was evidence enough of that. He gestured at Andrew to wait as he pulled out his own cell phone and dialed the number to his home.

"Michael? Are you... Are you okay?" Andrew asked in a timid whisper. Michael gave him another gesture, this one a vague _don't worry about it_ , or perhaps _I'll explain later_.

The phone rang twice before it clicked.

_"Mikey? Whaddya want?"_

"Izzy." Michael tried not to sound disappointed, but he'd expected his mother to answer. "Is mom there? I-I'm in a bit of a bind and could use her help."

 _"I already told you— she's at that conference!"_ Michael could hear dishes clattering in the background and a sink running. His sister sounded busy.

"I-I... forgot. My apologies. I... don't want to bother you if you're—"

 _"Hang on."_ The noise came to a stop, and Isabelle's tone immediately changed from irritated to concerned. _"You sound like you're in pain or somethin'. What happened? Do I needta go over there?"_

"If you don't mind. Bring the emergency kit. Y-You know... the family one?"

Michael heard Isabelle gasp. He knew what her face looked like without having to see her.

_"What did you do?!"_

Michael closed his eyes, filled his lungs with air, and allowed the totality of the situation to settle around him. It was going to be a long afternoon. There was no escaping it.

"...I'm afraid I've come down with a case of the chills."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Michael's non-English phrase is in Latin and comes from Virgil's Aenid. It translates most literally to "there are tears for things and mortal things touch the mind." His reasons for using this particular "protective command" will be explained in the future.
> 
> In the meantime, prepare yourselves! Izzy is coming.


End file.
